


Sometimes The Journey Isn't The Best Part

by Viskovie



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Conflicting Feelings, First Date, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Napoleon makes A Mistake™, On Hiatus, Slow Burn, Updating the tags as I go, but neither realise it, everybody needs a friend like Ahk, jesus can't even help at this point, multiple POVs, not a romantic relationship yet, slightly AU, some historical accuracy??, soon, these boys are so deep in denial, you won't even believe how much fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 18:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viskovie/pseuds/Viskovie
Summary: Napoleon Bonaparte and Alphonse Capone are not exactly the poster boys for compatibility, but somehow they find themselves drifting together like ships with no wind in the sails - each worrying that the other will loose the cannons on them, despite neither having cannons on board. It is frustrating for everyone involved, as there is not so much courting as dancing on eggshells. Eventually, though, there will be no more eggshells to dance on, and no more ocean currents to chase because this story does - in fact - have a happy ending.Or, will. Eventually.Alternative title: Everyone Knows What's Going On, Except Two Oblivious Idiots





	1. Taken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unfledged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfledged/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Give Me My Car Back You Little Freak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11912205) by [unfledged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfledged/pseuds/unfledged). 



> I added some notes and thoughts on this story (as I've written) to the end. Not super important, but it may help the story read better. I am not familiar with Chicago/New York slang, apologies. All mistakes are my own. Rated for some language, and the general themes.

If you're interested to see what how I envisioned Al's car, you can find a picture [here](https://www.gmc.com/suvs/yukon-denali-full-size-luxury-suv). If you scroll down a bit you get a revolving image, which gives a better idea of what I had in mind.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

After the night he’d had, Napoleon felt that he was completely justified in taking Capone’s car – a brute of a thing, much like its owner – for a joyride. A perfectly good dinner had been spoiled by the terrible table manners of the New Yorker, who had seen fit to shovel half his plate into his mouth at once. Napoleon had quietly mentioned it without causing a scene and been rewarded with another deliberate display of oafishness. He attempted to educate Capone on proper etiquette, but the _crétin_ had laughed – laughed! – at him, waved a forkful of pasta around, and declared the French to be “stuck up” and “above themselves”. That had offended Napoleon greatly, and he had swept elegantly out of the restaurant. Not, however, before telling Capone exactly what he thought of America – more specifically Chicago, despite having never actually been there.

He had managed to pinch Capone’s car keys as he went, and felt rather proud of his successful attempt at pickpocketing. He had swiftly hopped into the driver’s seat and had the dreadful realisation that his brilliant plan just might fail. The godforsaken machine was massive – the steering wheel was almost at arm’s length, the pedals were too far away to reach properly, and he could barely see over the dashboard. Napoleon dedicated a minute to an unholy string of curses that he would never admit to, if ever confronted about it.

Suddenly, an idea!

He fumbled for the blanket which Capone always kept in the back. Napoleon wondered about the reason. He guessed it had something to do with the ladies Capone kept bringing to his car, but he had never asked. Perhaps he would do that tomorrow. Anyhow, he grabbed the strangely discoloured blanket and bunched it up on the seat. There, that gave him the elevation that he required. He brought the seat forward as far as it would go, and that allowed him to reach the pedals and the steering wheel. Turning the key in the ignition, he felt the monster SUV thrum to life beneath him.

When the Tablet of Ahkmenrah had unexpectedly died and the exhibits had become human again, Larry had insisted they all learn to drive, use the phone, and to survive in the modern world. At first Napoleon had protested, arguing that they could survive just fine without needing to learn all these new skills. Unfortunately, it had been an unpopular opinion. Even Kahmunrah and Attila the Hun had been in favour of Larry’s suggestion. Until the pharaoh had learned that he would need to get a job, that is.

Now, he was glad for the lessons; he could get one up on Capone by driving off with his beloved vehicle, even if it reeked of the owner’s cologne and forced him to open the window.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Al Capone stood in the restaurant parking lot, seething. His car – his beautiful, badass, black-as-death GMC Yukon Denali – had been stolen, along with his keys. To make things worse, he knew who had taken it and it wasn’t going to be easy to convince him to give it back. He and Nippy had been enjoying a good, hearty meal and it had appeared that their relationship was finally improving when the little French Fry had had the nerve to complain about his eating habits.

“You put too much food in your mouth at once!” He’d complained in his cute French accent. Al had playfully retaliated by taking an even bigger mouthful of his carbonara. That had earned him a cross look, and a lecture. Al had tried not to snicker at the pompous manner, he really had, but he couldn’t hide his smile in time. Nippy had looked deeply hurt and launched into another tirade, ragging on Al for being “uncouth” and “boorish”, whatever that meant. That wasn’t fair – he’d only been messing around a little. Al took a deep breath and another bite, before delivering his snappy comeback. He had called out the French for being too stuck-up and overcomplicating things, which was true. Apparently, they ate with _five_ forks – each one for a different part of the meal!

Al preferred to have one knife and one fork or spoon, depending on what he was eating. It made things so much easier, and let him fully enjoy his meal. Being Italian-American, he had grown up on what essentially amounted to comfort food and had developed great respect for food and those who made it happen. That didn’t mean he’d eat _anything_ , but he was far less choosy than most others. French Toast always seemed to mistake his enthusiasm for a lack of manners, though.

When the little thief had thrown a tantrum and stormed off, Al had been left to pay the bill – even though they’d agreed to split it. He’d managed to convince the waitress to give him a discount, with his most charming smile and a strategically placed compliment. He felt a little bad, because she would surely get into trouble with her boss for it, but he would be long gone by then so it didn’t really matter.

He stood in the parking lot and contemplated what to do. He could walk home . . . nah, home was too far away. He could catch a taxi . . . but New York taxis were difficult to hail and he didn’t feel like negotiating another ridiculous price. He could phone one of his pals . . . yeah, that would work. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Al tried to remember which of his boys would be, ah . . . busy . . . tonight and which ones would be free.

As his finger hovered over Frankie’s name, a sudden wave of vindictiveness surged up in him and he instead tapped on the contact labelled ‘French Toast’. He quickly flicked out a message, sent it, and settled against the wall to wait.

“Give me my car back, you little freak.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Napoleon heard his phone ‘ _ping_ ’ in his waistcoat pocket, and fought the urge to look at it. Larry had repeatedly stressed that looking at one’s mobile whilst driving was dangerous. Seeing Miss Earhart’s look of adventure, he had quickly added; “and illegal.”

Eventually, he arrived in the driveway of his apartment block and parked. He threw the blanket onto the backseat and jumped down from the driver’s seat, before making his way up several gruelling flights of stairs. Once he’d gotten into his and Capone’s shared apartment, wheezing and out of breath, he shrugged off his coat and flopped onto the sofa to read his text message.

It was from Capone.

“Give me my car back, you little freak.”

Napoleon gasped, outraged, and hurriedly typed a message back. Before he sent it, though, he stopped to think. Capone wouldn’t understand half the references he’d included as they related to a time long before the mobster had even been born. Besides, his fury was not adequately conveyed yet. Half an hour later, after much thinking and overthinking, Napoleon sent his finished message to Capone and waited. It was simple: “Come and get it.” He conveniently left out where the car was.

That would be sure to irritate him, and figuring it out would give him a much-needed intellectual workout. Once he got home all hell would break loose, but Napoleon had _at least_ another few hours before then. He smirked and got up to brew a coffee in the meantime. As he stood by the machine, listening to it hum, his thoughts drifted back to when Larry had suggested that two of them move out of the tiny apartment shared by Napoleon, Capone, Kahmunrah and Ivan. Capone had jumped at the idea so fast the Frenchman suspected that he had been thinking about it for a while already.

Napoleon was relieved that he was choosing to leave – finally he could enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet! He had waited for one of the others to volunteer to go, but no one did. Slowly, he became aware of Ivan, Kahmunrah and Larry looking at him expectantly. Realising what they wanted, he shook his head fervently.

“ _Non_!” He had cried. “I refuse to accompany that . . . that _fainéant_ into another cramped living space!” Larry sighed, and motioned for Capone to remain still. He did, but looked ready to shoot Napoleon.

“I don’t know what you just said, but it sounded like a real nasty insult, shortstack.” He’d hissed, the promise of violence glinting evilly in his eyes. Napoleon opened his mouth to defend himself against that unnecessary barb when Ivan spoke up.

“What are we going to do for money?” He asked, shifting his weight around. Kahmunrah smiled brightly at Larry, no doubt believing finances would be handled for him. Larry looked carefully at all of them as if sizing them up for coffins.

“You need to get jobs.” The silence that followed was deafening. Ivan looked contemplative, Capone’s expression changed to one of interest, and Kahmunrah looked horrified. Napoleon was caught between excitement at earning money again and worry. Before his could voice his concerns, the ex-pharaoh had launched himself into a furious fit, screeching about the injustice of it all. It had taken the four of them nearly forty-five minutes to calm him down enough for Larry to explain how to go about getting work. It was a dear relief to note that things were not as complicated as Napoleon had feared. However, there was still the problem of skills. He was fairly certain that his skill as a military general was no longer needed in this world.

Ivan had clearly been having the same doubts, for he asked quietly about what work could be found for a former dictator. Larry’s face had softened, and they began discussing what kinds of skills Ivan had. Napoleon had listened intently, and thankfully found that his fears were baseless. When Ivan looked considerably more reassured, Capone had asked a strange question.

“What’s the police like nowadays?” He said slowly, his face unreadable. Larry had looked just as baffled as Napoleon felt. “Like, better or worse than in the twenties?” Capone had elaborated, upon noticing.

“Uh, the same. . . I guess.” Larry answered. Capone nodded, grabbed his car keys and left. Suddenly, Larry leapt to his feet and sprinted out the door after the New Yorker, his face a mask of horrified realisation. He was too late. When he came trudging back, his head hung low and he looked as though someone had framed him for a terrible crime. Ivan had studied his face curiously and concluded that Larry had toothache. Napoleon shook his head in exasperation, and focused on acquiring some part time occupation for himself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It did not take someone _half an hour_ to reply to a text. Al was frustrated. After all that had happened, this was the proverbial icing on the proverbial cake: a nasty message designed to infuriate. His request had been totally fair – he wasn’t asking for the moon or anything, he just wanted his damn car back! He shrewdly considered the message again, quickly guessed that French Toast would have gone home, and called one of his boys to come pick him up. Antonio had agreed right away, and told Al to stay put. Al wasn’t sure he was entirely happy with the man’s nonchalant attitude toward his boss. They’d have to have a little chat.

While he waited, though, he needed to fill his time. He tapped his foot until his ankle began to ache. He lit a cigar and took a few drags on that. He drummed his fingers against the concrete ground and tried to ignore the decorative, uneven brickwork digging into his back. The minutes dragged on, and he was uncomfortably aware of how fast his tailbone was going numb. He watched as a couple staggered out of the pub next-door, laughing and singing. They lurched off into the night, their off-key song drifting back on the breeze. Al rolled his eyes and savoured the tobacco on his tongue.

Finally, Antonio’s Toyota pulled up next to him, speakers blaring and bass thumping. Al stood slowly, each joint popping loudly.

“Boss!” Antonio called happily, leaning precariously out the window. The moment Al opened the shotgun-side door the smell of alcohol hit him like a wall. He glared at his boy and gestured for him to move over to shotgun, his movements small and sharp. Antonio swallowed nervously. Al slammed the door with more venom than was probably necessary, and strode around to the driver’s side. He climbed in, opened all the windows and kicked the car into drive. While they drove, he lectured Antonio on driving drunk. He wasn’t that angry, but the poor kid looked terrified. Al took pity on him and let the music wash over them.

Eventually, they arrived back at Al and Nippy’s apartment building and Al got out. For a long minute he looked at Antonio, deciding whether or not he could let the _idiota_ drive. As the boss, he was responsible for all his boys . . . but he hadn’t become the boss by being a softie. He shook his head and threw his hands in the air.

“You can drive home but if you get ya’self stuck in the slammer, I ain’t coming to get ya out.” He warned. Antonio nodded quickly. Al soon found his beloved car and turned to start making his way up to their shared apartment. He had to stop about halfway up the stairs to catch his breath again. No doubt now that Nippy was home, and Al wanted to appear as suave and unaffected as possible so as to not give the little rat any satisfaction at all. He stood in front of the door and took another deep breath. He straightened his collar, set his hat at a jaunty angle and made sure he wasn’t visibly sweating before slipping his key into the lock.

Oh, the look on French Toast’s face would be priceless.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Napoleon was sipping his second cup of coffee and reading his book when he heard keys in the lock. He nearly dropped his cup and leapt to his feet. A sudden, undesirable impulse to hide took hold of him and warred with the urge to stand and fight. But he didn’t have time to move, as the lock clicked and the person on the other side let the door swing open.

There stood Capone; his dark clothes and darker hair immaculate, his trademark hat at a carefree angle and a faintly-smoking cigar caught between his straight white teeth. He swaggered into the apartment and carefully shut the door behind him. Napoleon noted how he locked it and pocketed the keys. Capone turned to observe him, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. Despite his relaxed stance a strong sense of danger permeated the air. Napoleon could almost see the electricity crackling off the man.

He would never admit it, but Capone was the only person who truly scared Napoleon. He was quick to anger and very slow to actually lose his temper, which greatly unnerved the Frenchman. He came across as simultaneously volatile and consistent, due to his eerie tendency to smile when he was angry. Napoleon had always thought of that trait as unnatural and rather witchy. The gangster would be cheerful and merry one moment, and then suddenly the light in his eyes would extinguish but his smile wouldn’t waver, and if that was not the most frightening thing–

His slightly panicked train of thought was cut abruptly short by Capone stepping into his space and lazily breathing cigar smoke into his face. Napoleon coughed and did his best to glare witheringly. He made to step back, but Capone laid a hand on his shoulder. The gesture wasn’t aggressive in any way and it wasn’t particularly strong, but he was considerably taller and broader, and Napoleon found himself paralysed. It took a few moments for him to realise that the New Yorker had said something. Rolling his eyes theatrically, Capone repeated himself.

“You don’t give me enough credit, Nippy.” He sounded almost hurt. Napoleon wasn’t fooled. The look in Capone’s eyes implied that if he looked away, he would be slaughtered like a pig. He somehow managed to maintain eye contact. Capone leaned in, almost imperceptibly. The grip on Napoleon’s shoulder tightened. He squirmed a little. Capone tilted his head to one side, never breaking eye contact. He didn’t blink.

“Answer me.” He breathed slowly. Napoleon’s throat closed up as his heart began to drum against his ribcage. He shook his head. The hand on his shoulder closed even further, almost to the point of pain. His mind clouded with irrational fear, and he did the only thing he could think of. In hindsight, he saw that his body moved much faster than his brain. If it hadn’t, he might not have made such an impulsive, suicidal mistake.

He reached up and planted a kiss right on Capone’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Al waving his food around is just a big, extravagant hand gesture. He’s Italian – what more can I say?  
> \- I had this idea that Al would spritz the inside of his car with his own deodorant after having a lady in there to disguise the smell. Kind of gross I know, but if he keeps washing it out too often, the others are going to get suspicious. And it’ll ruin the upholstery. Also, his car doesn’t actually smell as offensive as Napoleon says it does – he is just a little drama llama.  
> \- When Al mentions the many forks of French dining, he’s referring to high etiquette not everyday manners. But of course, he doesn’t realise his mistake.  
> \- Napoleon and Al’s apartment block doesn’t have an elevator, so they have to take the stairs. The muscles in their legs are starting to look really good, too.  
> \- Napoleon completely underestimates Al and tends to see him as a common thug with not much between the ears.  
> \- Al is slowly rebuilding his mafia empire, but Larry is the only outsider who’s caught on so far.  
> \- The two of them are sharing an apartment because it makes it easier to pay for. Neither of them are earning enough to carry the rent at this point.  
> \- Al continuously makes big hand gestures, but that’s to be expected.  
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> \- crétin – cretin, idiot, imbecile  
> \- carbonara – a spaghetti-like pasta in a creamy sauce, typically with little bits of bacon in it  
> \- fainéant – slacker  
> \- idiota – idiot, moron  
> \- slammer – jail, holding cell  
> LANGUAGE TRANSLATIONS COURTESY OF GOOGLE TRANSLATE


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon worries and doubts. Al doesn't have the greatest of days. Both misinterpret the other's behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I have some notes for reading. You can find them at the end if you would like. I would also just like to thank everybody who is reading this, especially @unfledged for their outstanding feedback. ;D
> 
> There is a bit of an angsty chapter, but there's some humor (I hope) at the end. 
> 
> I own up to any mistakes - give me a shout if there are any.

If anyone would like to see what kind of flowers Napoleon has, you can find a picture [here](https://balconygardenweb-lhnfx0beomqvnhspx.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Kalanchoe-Piton-Pink.jpg).

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The second thought Al had was _what the hell is going on?_ The first was more along the lines of _damn; Nippy’s lips were softer than they looked_. Almost immediately, though, he shoved the little French Fry away. For a few moments, he couldn’t say anything. He just stood there, eyes wide and casual demeanour gone out the window. French Toast had gone a glowing shade of red. He looked like a traffic light. He couldn’t meet Al’s gaze and stared a hole in the carpet instead. After a few tense moments, Al managed to pull himself together and took another drag on his cigar. That helped clear his head.

 

“You could’a told me ya had a lil’ crush, darlin’.” He drawled, raising an eyebrow. Nippy’s face went even redder, if that were possible. The little guy shuffled his feet, looked up and then bolted. He took off so fast, Al swore the carpet was smoking. Heaving a confused sigh, Al took off his coat and hat before dropping them onto the coat rack by the door. He kicked his off his shoes and padded through to his bedroom to get changed into something more comfortable, before heading to the kitchen to make some coffee.

 

They had a fancy machine for it, but he preferred to make his coffee himself – although, the beans _were_ a little on the expensive side. As he lifted the kettle to pour the hot water, a sudden crash echoed through the apartment. Boiling water splashed onto Al’s foot and he hissed like an angry alley-cat. This was followed by a string of _the_ _finest_ choice words. He yanked his sock off and threw it into the sink, not caring that it knocked over Nippy’s flowerpot.

 

Al stormed into the living room and nearly fell over the little French Fry. The crash had come from the TV remote, which was now lying on the floor. Nippy grabbed it in a shaking paw and flopped onto the sofa. He didn’t even look at Al. That irked him.

 

The gangster tugged off his other sock, balled it up and pegged it at the back of French Toast’s head. Perfect shot! The sock bounced off Nippy’s head and landed in his lap. He leapt to his feet with a squeal of outrage. The noise sparked a howl of laughter from Al, and he caught the sock as it was thrown back. He contemplated starting a sock war, but the look of distress on Nippy’s face stopped him. As funny as it was to mess with him, Al didn’t want the little guy to fear him _all_ the time. Besides, his feet were getting cold.

 

Still cackling, he went back to the kitchen, made his coffee and then grabbed another pair of socks. He forgot about the one in the sink.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon was mortified. Of all the ways to die, embarrassment had to be the most painful. He didn’t stumble when Capone roughly shoved him away – for that he was immensely  grateful. He couldn’t force himself to meet Capone’s eyes, and when the man commented – astoundingly accurately – on his crush, Napoleon had fled. It was not his proudest moment, but it was done now.

 

He was terrified that Capone would think him a monstrosity, should he ever find out about Napoleon’s deeply-buried feelings for him. He himself found them disgusting and unnatural. Sometimes, these self-deprecating thoughts travelled to an even darker place. What would Capone _do_ if he ever found out? Would he simply shut Napoleon out of his life, or would he turn to violence like they did in the 1800’s? Would he leave him alone, or would he make the Frenchman’s life not worth living? He knew Capone was capable of terrible things – he’d done his research.

 

Napoleon also knew _for a fact_ that Capone did not return his feelings. Even if, by some microscopic, _miraculous_ chance, Capone did have the same . . . attractions . . . as Napoleon, they were not intended for him. He tried hard not to think about it, because it broke his heart a little further when he did. He continuously scolded himself for thinking of his flatmate in such a way –  it had been drilled into him for many years that _that_ kind of behaviour was wrong in every way.

 

He managed, with colossal effort, to drag himself away from those thoughts and focused on the present. His feet carried him to the living room, where he decided to lose himself in the television for a while. His hands were shaking so badly that when he tried to pick up the remote control, it slipped through his fingers and onto the tiled floor with a deafening crash. He heard a hiss, akin to that of a cat, and a furious burst of expletives.

 

The next moment, Capone stalked into the room. Napoleon noticed that he had changed clothes and only had one sock. He looked ready to strangle him. The Frenchman seized the remote and dropped onto the sofa with all the grace of a dead elephant. He could not bear to look at Capone, for he would surely see only disgust and fury in his face.

 

Suddenly, something hit him in the back of the head and – almost simultaneously – something landed in his lap. It was a balled-up sock. He sprang to his feet with a cry. It was meant to come out indignant but, unfortunately, his voice cracked from disuse and the sound that came out of his mouth was decidedly squeaky. Capone doubled over with laughter, clutching his stomach. Napoleon hurled the sock back at its owner. Deftly, the mobster snagged the projectile out of the air as it flew past his ear.

 

He considered Napoleon, before grinning and heading back into the kitchen. Napoleon let out a sigh of mingled relief and heartache, then settled in to watch the television.

 

Later that night, as he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, he contemplated his flatmate. Capone was a very expressive man when he wanted to be. Napoleon supposed it came from being Italian. He had several different ways of laughing, for example. There was the one that started out as a smirk, then turned into a smile, which became a giggle, that morphed into full-blown laughter. There was the one that began when he snorted, then laughed at himself as well as whatever else was so humorous. Napoleon couldn’t forget the one that bubbled up from his chest, full-bellied and deep. He howled and ended up incapacitated on the floor with tears streaming down his face – that was always funny to watch, he giggled like a little _fille_ , he whooped like a hooligan, and he tittered like a group of old women.

 

Napoleon smiled sadly, and closed his eyes. Sleep took him quickly after that.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al figured Nippy was embarrassed. He figured Nippy had acted without thinking. He figured Nippy wouldn’t want to talk to him for a while. That was okay. He understood. He’d been in plenty of humiliating situations himself. He was more than happy to give French Toast some space and time to sort himself out. His attempt to intimidate him into apologising had backfired pretty miserably.

 

He’d immediately regretted his wisecrack about the kiss when Nippy blushed even deeper, and looked ready to die. Al had opened his mouth to take it back, but French Fries had already run away. That had been a huge mistake on Al’s part – he had never meant to make Nippy that uncomfortable.

 

That night, he fell asleep surprisingly quickly. In his dream he was back in the twenties, at the height of his power. He was busy organising his boys, calculating this month’s income, misleading police investigations, and making sure his wife was having a good day. All in a day’s work, he supposed. Even asleep Al knew it was just a dream. His wife, Mae, was long dead and his son was probably close to it. It gave him a headache and heartache.

 

Despite the nostalgia, he couldn’t shake the weird feeling that he was missing something. As his dream unfolded, the feeling got stronger and stronger until it drowned out everything else like a tidal wave.

 

When he woke up, he felt like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. He trudged into the kitchen at the crack of dawn in search of something to nibble on, and instead found Nippy hunched over a cup of . . . tea? . . . and lost in thought. Al had gotten all the way to the fridge before he was noticed.

 

Nippy jumped a mile and slopped tea all over the counter. He grabbed a nearby dishcloth and quickly mopped it up. Al rolled his eyes – without any real malice – and started making breakfast for the two of them. It was him discreetly trying to fix his mistake. When he slid a plate of toast, omelette and bacon across to Nippy, the little guy finally looked him in the face.

 

“Thank you.” He said quietly. Al nodded and started to eat. He didn’t miss the badly suppressed sadness in French Toast’s eyes.

 

Later that day, while having a _real_ nice lunch, he got a slightly panicky phone call from one of his boys.

 

“Boss! We got a problem!” Frankie’s voice was a little hoarse, like he’d been yelling. “Remember that warehouse you wanted? Yeah? Well . . .” He trailed off. Al subconsciously leaned forward across the table.

 

“What happened?” He said, glancing around the café and managing to stay calm. He had got his boys to scout out their former haunts, and they had proudly returned with the news that one of their old bases had been left standing and – more importantly – empty. He had planned to set up temporary headquarters there until they could secure somewhere more flash.

 

“Well, ah. . . there’s, y’know. . .” Frankie _um_ ’d and _ah_ ’d for a while, and Al was starting to get irritated.

 

“Come on.” He prompted bluntly.

 

“There’s cops all over. Turns out, they got a station ‘bout three-‘undred feet away, on the corner.” Frankie said quickly, as if hoping Al wouldn’t hear the second part. But he did. Oh, he heard it alright. _Of course_ there would be a new copshop just down the road. He sighed, and told Frankie to keep it under control until he got there. Once he’d hung up, Al looked mournfully at his half-eaten lunch. He could finish it now and make Frankie wait . . . no, his gang needed him. As much as he loved them, they were – for the most part – not that great at organising themselves. Lots of them had brilliant ideas, but didn’t have the admin skills to implement them.

 

The last thing he needed now was for the cops to shut him down before he’d even started. He had his own legacy to live up to, and wow, wasn’t _that_ just a little weird. Hailing a waiter, Al politely asked if he could get his lunch as takeout. The snooty little beanpole said that _no, that wasn’t their policy here_. Al closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He stood up sharply and his chair screeched jarringly along the ground. He didn’t give a damn if he scratched the floor. He towered over the kid, and looked him dead in the eye.

 

“You tell your boss why he’s losin’ a patron today.” Al growled and strode out of the shop. Frankie owed him lunch, and possibly a whiskey.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon was astonished when Capone made breakfast for him. It was a good and hearty breakfast, too. He’d woken up at an ungodly hour – even for him, and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. He made himself some chamomile tea and ended up spilling it all over the counter. Capone had given him a look, then set about making breakfast.

 

Napoleon could see that Capone was angry. It showed in the tightness of his movements, the faint line between his eyebrows, and how he simply nodded when Napoleon thanked him for the food. The meal was actually delicious, considering that it was only five-thirty in the morning. Thoughtfully, Napoleon observed his flatmate. Capone didn’t look as though he’d had a good night’s sleep. He supposed he hadn’t either. Although, his reasons for that were likely completely different to Capone’s.

 

After they’d eaten and Capone had left, Napoleon had taken a deep breath. He wasn’t going to allow a stupid mistake to make him uncomfortable in his own home. He resolved to look Capone in the eye again, to fall back on the familiarity of constant bickering, and to maintain his superior attitude. Nodding decisively, Napoleon washed his plate and went to brush his teeth.

 

He walked into the single bathroom and nearly choked. The shower was warming up, and Capone was in the process of taking off his shirt. Napoleon ducked out of the room immediately, praying that he hadn’t been seen. His face burned like the fires of Hell. He stumbled back to the kitchen in a state of shock. He stood near the sink, staring unseeingly out of the window. So much for looking Capone in the eye again – Napoleon was never going to be able to forget this.

 

As he gradually came back to reality, he noticed his flowerpot lying on it side with soil all over the counter. His poor Kalanchoe plant! Hurriedly, Napoleon scooped the plant and its soil back into the pot and set it upright. He filled the quaint watering can beside it and gave his poor, abused flowers a drink. Setting the can down, he saw the – presumably dirty – sock in the sink and frowned. It matched the one thrown at him last night.

 

Gingerly, he picked it up between his thumb and forefinger. A sudden idea plastered a wicked grin on his face. He returned to the bathroom and made sure the shower was on and Capone was humming softly, before carefully opening the door a tiny bit and pitching the sock over the shower curtain. He slammed the door and ran for his life, shrieking with mirth.

 

Behind him, the gangster roared in fury and shock, and unleashed the most impressive flood of curses that the Frenchman had ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Al spilling hot water on his foot is one of the rare occasions where he loses his temper.  
> \- He changes into something akin to sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt – surprising simple stuff, for a guy like him.  
> \- Napoleon spends entirely too much time observing Al.  
> \- Al laughs a lot, especially around people he is more comfortable/familiar with  
> \- This takes place quite a while after the Battle of the Smithsonian, so they have known each other for long enough for Napoleon to notice these things  
> \- Al is a night owl, and Napoleon is an early bird  
> \- His son (creatively named Sonny) died of old age in 2004 – no wonder it gives Al a headache  
> \- 300 feet is approximately 90 -100 metres  
> \- Al isn’t angry with Napoleon – he’s just really tired, and a little grumpy because of that. 
> 
> TRANSLATIONS - ALL LANGUAGE TRANSLATIONS COURTESY OF GOOGLE, AS PER USUAL  
> \- Fille – girl  
> \- Copshop – police station (I couldn’t find a place of origin for it, but I used it anyway.)  
> \- Snooty – arrogant, snobbish, condescending


	3. Sock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sock™ makes another appearance, and Al realises that he does not have time for Kahmunrah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading notes at the end, as per usual. 
> 
> Again, all errors are my own. Please point any out to me that I might've missed. ;)
> 
> EDIT: I realise now that the timeline doesn't add up - please assume that the incident with Al and the new police station happened the day before. Thanks~

[The cookie jar](https://media.karousell.com/media/photos/products/2016/05/12/narrowneck_jar_with_lid_1463047340_bd0b5475.jpg), if anybody wanted a visual of Napoleon's "ingenious" plan to keep Al away.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al had been looking forward to a nice, hot shower since he’d woken up. After he and French Fries ate, he headed to the bathroom in search of some warm water.

 

He didn’t hear the door open, he didn’t hear it close, and he didn’t see Napoleon turn redder than a fire hydrant.

 

He made sure the water was hot enough before stripping down and getting in. Al stood under the shower for a while and just enjoyed how it felt on his skin. He began humming softly as he washed, a gentle Italian song he’d learned from his ma when his sister was born.

 

He didn’t hear the door open again, he didn’t see it over the shower curtain, but he _definitely_ felt the soggy, cold sock that suddenly landed on his shoulder. He yelled in shock. He heard the door slam and Nippy’s hysterical laughing as the little monster ran away. Al swore magnificently. He leapt out of the shower – with the offending sock in hand –, wrapped his towel around his waist and stalked after French Toast.

 

He wasn’t _that_ angry – well, actually he was furious – but mostly he couldn’t believe Nippy’s nerve! He thought it was okay to throw a wet sock at him, while he was in the shower and not bothering anyone? Fine. If the little guy wanted a prank war, then that’s what he was going to get. And Al didn’t always play by the rules.

 

He found French Toast in the kitchen again, crying with laughter as he brewed more tea. Al snuck up behind him and carefully put the sock on the back of his neck. Nippy screamed like a little _ragazza_ and flinched away. Al cracked up. Nippy spun around, opened his mouth to yell at him, and drew up short. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Pulling himself back together, he glared at Al.

 

“Unnecessary, _mon amie_.” He sniffed, hands on hips. Al rolled his eyes. French Toast was such a drama queen sometimes. Actually, he was a drama queen _all_ the time. He crossed his arms wryly.

 

“Uh huh.” He drawled. “And who started it?”

 

Nippy looked insulted.

 

“You!” He cried. Al couldn’t believe it. First he had a nasty wet sock pegged at him, then French Fries had the guts to blame _him_! He was the victim here! He gestured to himself in surprise.

 

“Yes, you. It was _your_ sock in the sink, _my_ flowers all over the counter, and therefore _your_ fault.” Nippy said smugly. _His logic was running on three legs at best_ , Al thought. _But now. . ._  He shook his head defiantly.

 

“No, no. You made me spill hot water on my foot, which is why I took my sock off ‘cuz I didn’t wanna get burned! Not my fault your plant was in the way.” He argued. Nippy narrowed his eyes.

 

“So it is _my_ fault you cannot control your temper, and flung your filthy sock at my Kalanchoes?” He protested. Al didn’t know what a ka-lang-kolee – or whatever – was. He opened his mouth to ask but was cut off when Nippy realised his tea was finished brewing. He waved a dismissive hand at Al, who grumbled and only went because he was not finished in the shower. He swiped Nippy’s cookie, dodging the badly aimed retaliatory swat, and left.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon had giggled all the way to the kitchen, where he made some tea and fished a biscuit out of the jar. It wouldn’t do for Capone to come flying out of the bathroom to find him splitting his sides laughing. He had to be calm and composed, so that the inevitable accusations had little direct evidence.

 

Suddenly, something icy cold and dripping draped across his neck. He shrieked in an embarrassingly girly way and flinched. Spinning around, he saw Capone draw back and cackle. He was about to launch into a lecture when he noticed Capone’s bare shoulders, bare midriff and bare legs. Napoleon’s brain short-circuited.

 

Some small part of him wondered how Capone wasn’t freezing in the biting morning air. The rest of him couldn’t focus on anything but the broad plane of his chest, and his unexpectedly flat belly (especially considering how much he ate, _good Lord_ ).

 

He forced his brain to cooperate, and fixed Capone with a glare.

  
  
“Unnecessary, _mon amie_.” He said haughtily. He was met with an eyeroll. Then Capone had the _audacity_ to challenge him. Napoleon was stunned. He drew himself up to his full height - which was, admittedly, not much - and refused to back down. He would _not_ take the blame for Capone’s temper tantrum! They argued back and forth for a few minutes, until he remembered his tea and shooed his flatmate away. Capone muttered something under his breath that Napoleon didn’t care to translate. As he left, he stole the Frenchman’s biscuit and strutted back to the bathroom. Napoleon huffed, and extracted – with difficulty – another biscuit from the jar.

 

He made his way to the living room, carefully balancing his cup and saucer – that was really just a mug and dessert plate – and avoiding the edge of the hall carpet. There were tiny spikes that held the carpet in place, right along the very edge where it connected to the tiles and he had made the mistake of standing on that with bare feet too many times. He placed his tea on the coffee table, drew back the curtains and settled in to watch the city for a bit.

 

It was a frosty morning, and the sun was raising its head more slowly than usual; a sure sign that summer was long gone and that winter was well on its way. Napoleon was more of a spring person than a winter one; his garden had always looked so bare during the colder months, and the illness that spread around the streets of Paris during his time was never welcomed.

 

He wondered what France looked like now. He had never been to America before he found himself in the Smithsonian, and thus couldn’t compare it to the 1800’s. Would France look much the same as it had, or would everything be different? He wondered if the Revolution had had a permanent impact. No doubt some things had changed, like the government – ugh. He shuddered. The Revolution had seen so many parties and politicians during its course that even he could not remember all of them.

 

Coming to America had been sort of like emigrating, he supposed. He wondered if he’d ever be able to go back to France and if he _did_ , if he would recognise it. He was interrupted from his musings by the sound of the bathroom door being opened with a squeak. He finished his tea, shoved the last of his biscuit into his mouth and stood. He took a moment to stretch luxuriously before heading off for his own shower. He and Capone both had work today.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al was lucky. He’d somehow gotten a good, well-paying job as a bartender at a relatively popular place, even though it had been a long time since he'd worked behind the bar. He mostly took the evening shifts when there was business, but it wasn’t heaving – he didn’t like drunken crowds in confined spaces, especially after the incident that gave him the nickname Scarface. He hadn’t meant to insult the woman – he’d just told her that she looked hot. They were in a brothel-bar for God’s sake, there were _infinitely_ worse things he coulda said or done! When her brother had jumped to his feet and pulled a knife on him, Al had almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it. He hadn’t tried to touch her, or called her anything vulgar, or assumed she was one of the whores. He hadn’t asked her brother if she was ‘good’, or how much he wanted for her. He had _some_ degree of courtesy, Jesus.

 

He hadn’t been laughing when the knife had carved three bright red lines into his neck and cheek.

 

He remembered hearing a woman scream, and the coward running away in panic, but the rest was a haze of shock. It hadn’t hurt until his head spun and his knees hit the ground hard enough to send jolts up his spine. He had never forgiven that guy but by the time Al was powerful enough to go after him, he’d forgotten his attacker’s face.

 

He was pulled  back to the twenty-first century by Kahmunrah commenting patronizingly on a nearby woman’s hairdo. She gave them both an ugly look, before turning back to her laptop. Al sighed and rubbed his temples.

 

Ivan had begged him to get the former pharaoh out of their apartment for a bit, and Al had only agreed because Ivan had promised him a bottle of good-quality wine. That had proved to be a mistake. Kahmunrah would _not_ stop bitching about every little thing, and it was driving Al up the wall. He wanted to lay into the brat but that would only result in him throwing a tantrum and storming off. Al loved his city – he didn’t want to punish it by inflicting Kahmunrah onto it. Besides, that would probably be a felony, and he was trying to keep his record clean for now.

 

His rise to power had been easier last time – he’d been part of a pre-existing gang, so all he had needed to do was get himself promoted again and again. This time, though, he was starting with nothing but a handful of the boys in his closest circle. Al planned to rebuild his reputation a lot faster now that he (kind of) knew what he was doing. He was already probing New York City for information and had so far come up with _very_ nice results. There were few other gangs in the area now, so competition wouldn’t be as brutal as it used to be. Plus the number of taverns, strip joints and seedy upstairs clubs had almost doubled – that meant much more business once he’d established a monopoly again.

 

Kahmunrah suddenly reached out and tapped Al on the wrist. He started, and realised he’d zoned out again.

 

“ _Spiacente_ , darlin’. Were you sayin’ something?” He asked in what he hoped was an innocent tone. Damn, he _still_ couldn’t kick the habit of calling everybody _darling_. Kahmunrah didn’t seem to notice. He shook his head dramatically at Al.

 

“I said,” he began in a singsong tone. “‘You and our lovely Frenchman?’” Kahmunrah wiggled his eyebrows. Al gave him a wary look.

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He said carefully, not knowing where this was going. Kahmunrah sighed melodramatically and leaned in conspiratorially. He glanced around as if there were spies listening in.

 

“Are you . . . you know.”

 

“I need the _whole_ question before I can give ya an answer, darlin’.” Al snarked. Kahmunrah narrowed his eyes, offended. He leaned back and folded his arms.

 

“You’re dating him, aren’t you?” He asked, loud enough for people to hear.

 

Oh. _Oh_. That’s how it was, huh?

 

Al shook his head. If this spoiled brat wanted to embarrass him in front of an audience then he had to be prepared for Al to hit back. _Don’t give what you can’t take_ , as his pa always used to say.

 

“No, I’m not.” He returned coolly. “Why? D’you want him? Good luck gettin’ him; his standards are a lil’ high for you.” Okay, maybe that was too nasty, but Al was getting tired of putting up with the ex-pharaoh’s bitchiness and refusal to acknowledge that he wasn’t better than anybody else. Kahmunrah looked floored. He opened his mouth – to make a scene, no doubt – but Al was faster. He stood up, grabbed his keys and left. Ivan could keep the wine; Al needed something stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Al is pretty proud of his Italian heritage, and often throws the odd word into his English sentences (like Napoleon and his French)  
> \- He has a good sense of humour, luckily.  
> \- The sock was damp but is now dripping, having been in Al’s shower. It hasn’t warmed up, unfortunately.  
> \- The correct pronunciation of Kalanchoe is _ka-lan-ko-ee_  
>  \- Their cookie jar has a narrow neck, so it makes getting one a little difficult. Napoleon chose that jar specifically for that reason, in the hopes of keeping Al out of the cookies. He has not been successful, because Al has figured out that he can tip the jar on its side and slide one free.  
> \- I got the idea of the spiky carpet edge from my own bedroom carpet. Standing on them is only fractionally less painful than standing on a lego.  
> \- Al and Napoleon have a nice apartment. Neither of them would settle for anything less, even though it’s kind of expensive to pay for.  
> \- Al _was_ a bartender for a few years, until he and his mentor Torrio got into bootlegging.  
> \- Al did actually get attacked by an angered guy who had (for whatever reason) taken his sister to a whorehouse for a drink, and it did give him the nickname.  
> \- Al forgetting the face of his attacker is a legit psychological thing called repression, and it’s where the brain forgets certain information in order to protect you from developing things like anxiety or (in extreme cases) PTSD and the likes.  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Ragazza – girl  
> \- Mon amie – my friend  
> \- Spiacente - sorry


	4. Lunchtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al takes Napoleon out for lunch, under the guise of self-interest. He has an argument and Napoleon discovers that Al is not all about dangerous places and scary people (although he can be one himself).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who read this and enjoyed it! ilysm
> 
> I, for whatever reason, find myself listening to Christina Aguilera when I write from Al's perspective. I don't know why.
> 
> Also, I would like to apologise for two things;  
> \- inconsistent updates  
> \- my nasty habit of starting new fics whenever an idea comes to me (I will try to prioritise this one, but that might not always be possible)
> 
> As usual: all mistakes are my own, translations courtesy of Google, and there are notes at the end.

Napoleon worked from nine until five in a quaint little bookstore, and he loved every minute. The pay was decent, the business was good, and he was allowed to read whenever it was quiet. Larry had helped him apply for the job, and had quietly explained to the owner that Napoleon was new to America. The woman, a young lady by the unusual name of Gaia, had laughed amiably and shaken both their hands enthusiastically.

 

 Right now, the lunch crowds had just dissipated and Napoleon was nose-deep in his book. Gaia, who worked alongside him, had recommended the series. It was about witches and wizards, a magical school, and the adventures of a central trio. At first, Napoleon had had misgivings – he generally preferred non-fiction or philosophical texts – but this series was enthralling. He was coming up to the end of the first book, and couldn’t force himself to put it down.

 

He heard the bell over the door jingle and half-registered a tall, dark figure coming into the shop. When they didn’t behave in a threatening manner, Napoleon returned fully to his book. A few moments later, the figure approached at the counter. Napoleon looked up and nearly dropped the book.

 

Capone.

 

Regaining some measure of confidence, Napoleon crossed his arms. He lifted his chin to meet Capone’s eye, trying to appear cool and collected.

 

“What are you doing here?” He snipped. The soft sounds of Gaia dusting books a few shelves down abruptly halted.

 

“Getting a book.” Capone said, spreading his hands placatingly. Napoleon rolled his eyes.

 

“I didn’t know you could read.” This wasn’t necessarily true –  Napoleon just wanted to get under _Capone’s_ skin for once. Unfortunately, he didn’t react in anger. Instead, he laughed lightly, if not completely genuinely.

 

“Ah, ya got me. I’m not here to buy,” he smiled. He gave Napoleon a meaningful look in Gaia’s direction. “I’m here to ask you on a lunch-date.” Napoleon almost choked. From behind the shelves, Gaia gave a little cough, evidently smothering a gasp. Capone was looking expectantly at Napoleon, who couldn’t decide if the gangster was being serious or not. Capone sighed.

 

“Nippy, I’ve had a rough morning and I don’t wanna be the only schmuck drinking at lunchtime.”

 

Napoleon released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He shifted his weight and folded his arms a little tighter across his torso, eyeing him suspiciously.

 

“So you are asking me to get drunk in broad daylight?”

 

“No. _I_ wanna get drunk in broad daylight; I’m asking _you_ to keep me company. And possibly get me home.”

 

“What happened to warrant this?” Napoleon asked exasperatedly. Capone dropped his gaze, but the Frenchman suspected it was to hide an expression of irritation. He rolled his shoulders, and Napoleon waited patiently.

 

“Kahmunrah.” Capone muttered. “He’s being a lil’ bitch again.”

 

Napoleon sighed, privately sympathising. He levelled the gangster with a shrewd look, before conceding. He hopped down from his chair, bookmarked his page and fetched his coat. As he pulled it on, he called out to Gaia to let him know that he was going out for a bit. She came around the corner, smiling innocently, and waved him out the door. Napoleon thought he saw her giving Capone an appreciative look, but could not be certain.

 

Once outside, Capone slung his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders and led him off down the street.

 

“I found this place,” he began, but Napoleon cut him off.

 

“Does this place involve darkened doorways, smoggy rooms or half-naked women?” He asked cynically. He knew about the kinds of questionable business Capone had been wrapped up in before the Smithsonian. Admittedly, however, the man himself didn’t seem to be _too_ untrustworthy. Capone laughed.

 

“No, it doesn’t.” He smiled, steering Napoleon across the busy intersection. “It’s a restaurant-type place. Sells alcohol, but also makes really good food.” Napoleon nodded, and tried to ignore Capone’s arm around him. They were attracting a few funny looks, but Capone didn’t seem to notice or care.

 

About twenty minutes later, in which Napoleon had envisioned a hundred possible places that might fit the description, each more threatening than the last, Capone finally found the place. As it turned out, he’d gotten turned around – _in his own city_ , no less. Napoleon was reassured about the standard of this place.

 

It was a restaurant-slash-café with a bar at the back and a few wooden tables outside. The sign read _The Carrier Pigeon_ , and was emblazoned with a painting of a pigeon with a sandwich tied to its back. Capone lead him inside, and they ordered lunch. The restaurant was warm – it was a relief to come in from the chill outside – and the beamed ceiling was decorated with creeping vines of ivy. The harmless kind, Napoleon hoped. All the same, he was careful not to touch the hanging tendrils, just in case. The place smelled of coffee and toasted sandwiches, and string lights were woven like fireflies around the ivy. Napoleon found that he liked this place. It was cozy and, if the food was nice, he might even come back.

 

Capone was watching him, carefully blank. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. The gangster dropped his gaze before standing up.

 

“Imma get a drink. You want something?” He asked. Napoleon considered, weighing up the pros and cons of getting tipsy during the day.

 

“No thanks.” He decided. He would have his tea; Capone would have his . . . whatever alcohol he was getting . . . and then Napoleon would then be tasked with getting his flatmate home safely. Capone shrugged, and made his way over to the bar. Napoleon couldn’t help but notice how out of place he seemed here, and wondered why he’d chosen this spot in particular. He tried not to imagine that it was because Capone suddenly felt the need to impress him. He sighed softly, cursing his traitor heart.

 

Just then the waiter appeared, bearing a tray of food. He set the plates down, glanced at Capone over by the bar (he looked to be having some sort of argument with the bartender, if his body language was anything to go by), and gave Napoleon a sympathetic smile. The Frenchman thanked him for the food, and rose to inform Capone. As he got closer, he caught the last snatches of the interaction between his flatmate and the poor bartender.

 

“. . . don’t give a damn about the time! I ain’t _askin’_ for ya strongest stuff!” Capone hissed. The bartender shook her head apologetically.

 

“But it’s only one-thirty. It’s not healthy to be drinking so early.” She protested weakly. Capone narrowed his eyes.

 

“It’s not healthy for your business to be denying me.” He drawled threateningly. The bartender trembled. She was a slight woman, but seemed reluctant to stand down. She shook her head one more time, glancing imploringly at Napoleon. Capone turned, quick as a snake. When he saw him, he visibly relaxed and beckoned him over. He returned his attention to the bartender, who quailed. Capone didn’t say anything else; he simply waited.

 

Napoleon wanted to tell him that lunch was waiting, but a part of him wanted to see the end of this. There were a few tense moments in which Capone demonstrated his superior intimidation tactics and the poor woman fidgeted. Finally, she cracked. She removed a bottle from the shelf behind her with trembling fingers and poured out the drink. Capone thanked her and slid a tip across the counter. Napoleon guessed that it was a sort of reconciliation. They made their way back to the table and continued their lunch in peace. The rest of the meal passed without incident.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al wasn’t sure how he knew about the _Pigeon_ , given that it really wasn’t his kinda place. After the whole Kahmunrah _ordalia_ , he needed something to take the edge off. Something alcoholic. Unfortunately, it was _way_ too early to be drinking alone, so he decided to take Nippy out for lunch and hopefully find a drink along the way.

 

He didn’t know what _the hell_ had possessed him to sling his arm around French Fry’s shoulders, but it would’ve been weird if he’d immediately let go. French Fry didn’t object, so he assumed it wasn’t too big a problem. He’d had to guide him across a busy intersection – the little guy nearly stepped out in front of a car twice.

 

The plan had been to get there as soon as possible, but unfortunately, he’d gotten mixed up about the streets. _Eventually_ he found the damn place. Apparently Nippy had been worrying, because he definitely relaxed as Al led him inside. It was a respectable place for lunch, and the bar at the back was an added bonus. Al planned to only get a little tipsy here, then head home and get wasted. They ordered lunch without fuss.

 

He couldn’t suppress the butterflies in his stomach. He didn’t know why he had them, but he did and they weren’t going away. He also couldn’t explain the sudden urge to impress Nippy. It wasn’t strong like what you’d expect from a first date or whatever, but it was nagging at him.

 

He didn’t realise he was staring until French Toast looked up and raised an eyebrow. Al looked away, and decided that the bar was calling his name. He stood a little shakily and offered to buy him a drink. Nippy considered, then politely said no. Al shrugged.

 

He thought about vodka, or rum, then decided to go with something a little less strong. He flashed the bartender a courtesy smile, and asked for one of the less-dangerous-looking drinks. The bartender, a tiny little chick who was maybe even shorter than Nippy (if that was possible), shook her head slowly.

 

“Sir, I’m afraid the bar isn’t technically open yet.” She explained apologetically. Al let out a sigh.

 

“I know, but still I ask.” He said dramatically, spreading his hands and deliberately making eye contact in the hopes of appealing to her compassionate side. _I’m a tired guy who hasn’t had a good morning,_ he implored silently _. Please let me have a drink._ Still she shook her head. Al decided to try for nice one more time.

 

“Aw, _signorina_. Please?” He smiled at her, leaning casually across the counter. She blushed a little, but shook her head and apologised again. Al raised an eyebrow. Damn it; this was going to take some more effort. He rolled his neck and took satisfaction in how many times it cracked. He put both elbows on the counter and looked the bartender in the eye.

 

“I’m done tryna’ be nice here. I’ve had a rough day and I need a drink.” He said, irritated now.

 

“Sir, really. I can’t let you have alcohol yet. It’s still too early.” The little woman stood her ground, Al had to give her that. But so did he and he’d had more practice than her, against tougher people. He drummed his fingers on the benchtop. Before he could open his mouth, though, she argued her point again.

 

“It’s been proven to be detrimental to your health to drink alcohol before five p.m.” She explained helpfully. Finally, Al lost his patience.

 

“Listen to me; I don’t give a damn about the time! I ain’t _askin’_ for ya strongest stuff!” He hissed. He’d been prepared to humour her, but now he was actually pissed off. The bartender shook her head petulantly. She was starting to look scared. _Good_.

 

“But it’s only one-thirty. It’s not healthy to be drinking so early.” She said softly, fidgeting. Al prayed silently for patience.

 

“It’s not healthy for your business to be denying me.” He snarled, before forcing himself to keep it together. He took pride in his ability to keep his temper in check. The woman was shaking like a leaf, and twisting the edge of her apron into knots. Al didn’t really _enjoy_ threatening people to get what he wanted but sometimes it was necessary. It had scared his gang rivals into submission a few times, and that had to be a good thing, right? Suddenly the bartender glanced at someone behind him. Still thinking of the dangers of being the boss, Al turned around. He nearly reached for his gun but then saw it was Nippy. He relaxed. Nothing to worry about there. He returned his attention to the woman behind the counter and figured he may as well test out a new intimidation tactic. He didn’t say a word or move; he just stared her down without blinking until – finally! – she gave in. As she poured out his drink, he filed his new technique away as successful.

 

He felt a little bad that he’d had to be so rough, so he tipped her generously as a kind of apology. He and Nippy went back to their table and enjoyed possibly the nicest lunch Al had had in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I based Gaia off somebody that I knew once, so if you’re that girl and you recognise yourself; I’m very sorry, please don’t sue me.  
> \- Al ran a bootlegging business – I’m going to take that to mean that he’s a heavy drinker.  
> \- The reason he gets turned around in the city isn’t because he doesn’t remember his way around; he just remembers his way around a different version of it.  
> \- Actually, Napoleon hit the nail on the head. Al is subconsciously trying to improve their relationship, and the best way to do that is to impress Naps.  
> \- Al is quite willing to deliver threats in order to get his way. He learned, when he first joined the gang scene, that it’s better to come across as aggressive rather than reasonable when confronted because even if you take the high ground (so to speak), there’s no guarantee that the other person will do the same.  
> \- Napoleon is secretly in awe of how good Al is at coercion and intimidation, which is part of why it works so well on him. He’s a tiny bit scared of Al, but he'd never admit even on pain of death.  
> \- That 5:00 stat is completely made up; don’t quote me on it. xD  
> \- Is the Al of this fic a fast gun? Yes. Was he in real life? I have no idea. 
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> \- Ordalia – ordeal  
> \- Signorina – miss/young lady/madam


	5. Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al gets smashed and reflects briefly on his pre-Smithsonian life. Napoleon tells a small lie, but gets caught out for it. Romantic feelings begin to build, and shenanigans ensue. But be warned; things are starting to get messy in Al's love life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I would like to - once again - thank everyone who is still reading this as it slowly degenerates into trash.
> 
> Second, if youse have any facts, feel free to hit me up in the comments. No guarantee that they'll make the cut, but it helps me get a better picture of the characters. Prize to anyone who can guess who Al was in a relationship with before.
> 
> Third, general disclaimer; these characters are not mine, mistakes are, translations courtesy of Google, more notes at the end. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Capone was drunk. There was no way around it; Capone was absolutely, unconditionally _plastered_. And Napoleon didn’t know what he was going to do about it.  

 

The drinking had started at about lunchtime, when the pair had ventured to _The Carrier Pigeon_ café for lunch. Napoleon tried not to think of it as a date; Capone had only been looking for an excuse to drink early. Either way, the mobster had been having a rather taxing day to begin with, and the argument with the bartender seemed to have been the tipping point. He’d started out with a glass of wine that had turned into two, which had turned into three, which had suddenly turned into a bottle of whiskey, a flaming cocktail and two frighteningly blue shots. Capone had wanted to buy another, but Napoleon had managed to talk him down and convinced him that it was time to go home, much to the relief of the bartender. He’d had to tell a small fib, though, and now he was paying for it.

 

“Nippy, how ‘bout them drinks, huh?” Capone laughed, and flung his arm around him. Napoleon’s knees nearly gave out under their combined weight. Capone was tall and solid, so it was difficult for the Frenchman to bear that nigh-deadweight, being only five-foot-five himself. He fished his keys out of his pocket and attempted to unlock the door to their apartment. Dragging him up several steep flights of stairs, whilst Capone tried his level best to get back down, had been neither fun nor easy. Napoleon didn’t know why his flatmate wanted to go back to the ground floor but if he’d let go of him, even for a moment, he’d try to escape; and Al Capone could actually move quite fast when he wanted to.

 

Now, nearly an hour after they’d left the _Pigeon_ , the sun was dipping toward the horizon and they were finally home. Unfortunately, Capone now expected Napoleon to provide another round of alcohol, which he was reluctant to do. Partly because he didn’t know how much more of the stuff Capone could stomach before succumbing to alcohol poisoning – which would be difficult to explain to Larry, and partly because he didn’t want to have to clean up after him when those numerous drinks inevitably started to reappear.

 

“ _Diletto_ , c’mon. . .” Capone giggled, clutching at Napoleon’s shoulder now. The Frenchman ignored him and managed – with difficulty – to get the key to cooperate. The lock clicked and he shoved the New Yorker inside the apartment, slamming the door behind them. Capone missed his footing, clearly not expecting the sudden gesture, and landed heavily on his knees. Napoleon winced. _That must have hurt,_ he thought guiltily. He hadn’t meant to push Capone over; he just didn’t want to have to fight with him to get inside as well now. He was about to offer his hand when Capone stumbled to his feet. He glared at Napoleon.

 

“Tha’ was un-nessess. . . un-essenary. . . un-nense. . .” He struggled with the words, frowning. “Don’t do tha’ again, _capire_?”

 

Napoleon tried not to laugh. He knew Capone to be a man of eloquence, but it seemed that in his drunken state he had forgotten how to speak English.

 

“I won’t.” He promised, smiling. Capone eyed him with suspicion for a moment. Then he shrugged.

 

“ _Alcol, per favore_?” He asked, tilting his head to one side enquiringly. Napoleon sighed. He carded a hand through his hair, unsure. Then he had an idea.

 

He led Capone into the living room and made him sit down. He reassured him that alcohol would not be long in forthcoming, and quickly trotted off to the kitchen. It was time to test how much he could get away with before his flatmate put two and two together. He took a small, half-full glass bottle down from the shelf and poured the foul-smelling contents into the sink. _Vodka was a disgusting drink,_ he thought. _Bloody Russians_. Napoleon refilled the bottle with water from the pitcher – not the tap, Capone would hear that – and fetched a glass from the cupboard. He took a deep breath, fighting a sudden case of the giggles, and made his way back to the living room.

 

Capone was standing at the window, a faint curl of smoke drifting toward the ceiling from a newly lit cigarette. Napoleon’s eye twitched. He’d told the mobster time and time again that he was absolutely _not_ to smoke indoors, but he never seemed to listen. He liked to smoke near the window, and Napoleon was sure that the smell would never completely wash out of the curtains.

 

The Frenchman put the water on the coffee table and strode over to him. He plucked the cigarette from Capone’s fingers just as he lifted it to his lips.

 

“Hey!” He protested. “Gimme that, dammit!” Napoleon shook his head and tried to hold it out of reach. Capone reached around him, but then noticed the water. He frowned again. Napoleon’s heart beat a little faster. Oh god, did he know? Could he tell? Capone fixed him with a confused, only slightly cross-eyed, look. Napoleon dropped his gaze sheepishly.

 

“Nippy, _hai solo ricordato un bicchiere._ ” He explained, bemused. Napoleon didn’t quite understand; it had been a long time since he’d spoken any Italian. He must have had a blank look on his face, because Capone sighed and elaborated.

 

“One cup.” He said slowly, gesturing to the glass on the table. “Two of us.” He pointed first at Napoleon then at himself.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Napoleon smiled and fetched another glass, hoping that having a drinking partner would distract Capone from the fact that the contents of the bottle were _not_ the promised alcohol. Besides, hauling Capone around New York and then up to their apartment was very thirsty work.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al knew he was drunk – he wasn’t stupid. He had planned to get smashed, and had done just that. Mission accomplished.

 

Nippy had been kind enough to get him home, which Al only vaguely remembered asking him to do. That had been nice. He’d already downed a round of shots by the time they went home. He was pretty confident that they were tequila but couldn’t be sure. They could’ve been that ‘electrical’ stuff that Larry’s kid drank, for all he knew; he was also too hammered by that point to really give a damn. Unfortunately, Nippy hadn’t let him have any more. He had, however, promised that there was alcohol at home, and a warm bed. Al wasn’t sure if it was quite what French Toast had meant, but he’d taken that to mean ‘a warm bed with somebody in it’. God, he hadn’t slept with anyone in ages! And Nippy was _cute_. Maybe not, like, a knockout but still. Definitely a cutie.

 

Everything was going great right up until French Fry tried to take him upstairs. Al didn’t want to leave the ground floor; it was safe here. He would never admit it, but he was actually kinda scared of heights. And spiders. And needles, ugh. He shivered at the thought.

 

No way he was going upstairs – where he might fall – when he could stay right here on the sofa in the lobby. The desk-lady was also sorta pretty, if he squinted. Unfortunately, Nippy had other ideas. He dragged Al upstairs to their place, complaining in French the whole time. Al was frustrated. If it weren’t for the booze in his system, he would absolutely have been able to get back down – he was bigger _and_ stronger than Nippy, goddamnit.

 

French Fry wrangled him to their door, then shoved him inside. Al hadn’t been expecting that and lost his balance. He pulled himself to his feet and glared at him. Totally uncalled for!

 

“Tha’ was un-nessess. . . un-essenary. . . un-nense. . .” He grumbled, the words refusing to come out of his mouth properly. He gave up. “Don’t do tha’ again, _capire_?” He slurred. Nippy smiled, and promised that he wouldn’t. Al suddenly remembered the reason they were here and not still at the bar.

 

“Alcohol, please.” He reminded him. French Toast considered him, then led him into the living room. _It was a nice room_ , Al thought. The big windows let him see his city every day, and the sofa was definitely wide enough to. . . sleep. . . on. Maybe that’s what Nippy wanted him to do. He allowed himself to be sat down, but before he could pull Nippy into his lap, the little guy had disappeared to the kitchen. He’d said something, but Al couldn’t remember what it was. He staggered to his feet again – if Nippy wasn’t going to sit with him then he wouldn’t sit at all – and made his way over to the window, the floor shifting dangerously underneath him. His throat itched, and he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it and took a drag on it. Al was mesmerised by the smoke that drifted upwards, like a little current in an invisible ocean. He took another few hits of the tobacco and slowly breathed them out to watch the smoke. It smelled good.

 

As he raised the cigarette again, it was suddenly gone from his fingers. He protested, but Nippy held it away from him. Al was about to get it back when he noticed the coffee table. French Toast had held true to his promise and brought out the vodka! Then he realised there was only one glass. Surely Nippy was gonna have some, too?

 

“You only remembered one cup.” He pointed out. French Fries looked at him like he was speaking another language. Al sighed.

 

“One cup.” He said, pointing at it. “Two of us.” He gestured to them, wondering if Nippy wanted to drink out of the same glass. Suddenly, the little guy smiled and fetched another. He poured out their drinks, and raised his glass.

 

“ _À la tienne_.” He said cheerfully. Al didn’t know what that meant, but he lifted his own glass in toast. He took a careful sip, remembering just in time that it was _not_ a good idea to slam vodka.

 

Hold up; this stuff tasted funny.

 

He sipped again, not quite sure what was wrong with it. It was kinda. . . bland. There was no fire in it, at all. Vodka was supposed to be hot going down and this wasn’t. Confusedly, Al took another swig, vaguely recognising it. He was sure he knew what this was, but the word was just out of reach. He drained the glass and looked hard at it, trying to get his thoughts to behave.

 

He looked up. Nippy was going pink in the face and doing a shocking job of covering a smile. He had a terrible poker face, and a part of Al wondered if he would be able to challenge French Toast to a gamble.

 

Suddenly it clicked.

 

“This is _water_!” He yelled, furious. Nippy burst out laughing. He nodded shakily. Al snarled at him, and fear flashed in French Toast’s eyes. His laughter subsided a little, and he smiled apologetically.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t want to give you alcohol poisoning. You’ve already had so much!” Al didn’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up in hospital for something drink-related. Besides, he was no lightweight – it took more than a couple of shots to bring him to his knees.

 

Actually, it _did_ end with him on his knees, just not in the same sense. Al smirked as he remembered an old flame, then sighed. That relationship had been good, but difficult. They’d lived in fear of someone finding out about them, as it was still punishable by lock-up to be gay. He tried not to think about it too much; he still missed him. Losing him – first to a woman named Galina Ornova, and second to exile –  had been really hard.

 

Nippy was looking at him worriedly. He reached out, as if to touch Al’s arm, but changed his mind halfway. Al suddenly realised that he missed the contact of another warm body. He grabbed Nippy’s hand and pulled him into a tight hug. The little guy went still. Al fought the part of him saying that now was a good time to remind himself how someone else’s body felt under his hands, too. He wasn’t so wasted that he was prepared to throw away the friendship he had with Nippy for one night between the sheets.

 

French Fry slowly put his arms around Al, and they swayed gently together. Al cursed himself for thinking of Luci again – he’d buried those feelings years ago; he wasn’t ready to relive that pain.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon hadn’t been ready for Capone’s dramatic mood swing. The surge of fury, followed by a steep drop in his mood, had left _him_ feeling dizzy. No wonder his poor flatmate was swaying like the deck of a ship.

 

He reached out to lay a comforting hand on his arm, but decided against it. Capone suddenly wrapped his arms around Napoleon. It was all he could do not to lean into the embrace, because that would almost certainly give away his feelings away. He waited for Capone to let go and shrug him off, but he didn’t. Hesitantly, Napoleon put his arms around him. They stayed like that for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

 

Suddenly, Capone pressed a chaste kiss against the Frenchman’s forehead. Napoleon felt his face flood with colour. He’d never encountered anyone _this_ drunk before, and wasn’t sure what to do. Did he push him away, or would that make him angry? Did he stay and risk revealing his heart? If he did, would Capone remember? He grappled with the dilemma for a moment, but the mobster solved the problem for him.

 

He stepped away, dropping his arms back to his sides. Napoleon told himself firmly that he was not disappointed; Capone was drunk and therefore not thinking straight. It would be taking advantage of him to let this go any further.

 

Suddenly, Capone took Napoleon by the shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth. The Frenchman nearly fainted. Before he knew what was happening, he was kissing him back. It lasted for a few long moments, then the gangster broke it. He turned and left in the direction of the kitchen. Napoleon stood numbly in the middle of the living room, lips tingling and heart thudding, whilst Capone dug around in the kitchen cupboards, occasionally swearing. Had that just happened, or were both of them losing their minds?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Al isn’t exactly stocky here – he’s too tall for that, but he’s not built like a bird either.  
> \- In real life, Al was about 5’8”, but in this fic I’m going to say he’s somewhere around 6’2”. ~~Vive la creative freedom~~  
>  \- Naps was actually 5’5” in real life.  
> \- The drunker Al gets, the less English he speaks. He remembers his English, and whether or not he’s talking to an English speaker – it just isn’t the language that actually comes out of his mouth. Any inconsistencies between his and Napoleon’s perspectives in this regard are because Al is pissed off of his face and therefore not processing things properly.  
> \- Neither Al nor Naps really understand that smoking is unhealthy - Naps just hates it because it makes his curtains smell like smoke.  
> \- Al’s entire section is written from his drunken perspective; everything he says and does is _not filtered_. When he admits that Naps is cute, it’s the alcohol acting on his deeper consciousness. He is not yet at the point where he is willing to acknowledge his feelings for Naps.  
> \- The “‘electrical’ stuff” is blue Gatorade, which has electro _lytes_ in it.  
> \- The mention of Al’s fear of spiders and needles is irrelevant; it just happens to be the next thing he thought of.  
> \- Sometimes Al smokes cigarettes, and sometimes he smokes cigars.  
> \- ~~The author has obviously never drunk vodka before and would like to apologise.~~  
>  \- Al can blame these violent mood swings on the booze in his system.  
> \- Al is Italian and Naps is French – the kitchen is the heart of the house.  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Diletto – darling  
> \- Capire – understand?  
> \- Alcol – alcohol  
> \- Per favore – please  
> \- hai solo ricordato un bicchiere – “you only remembered one glass”  
> \- À la tienne – cheers/“to you/yours”


	6. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Napoleon fears, those numerous drinks _do_ reappear. Al has regrets, and Larry has some advice.
> 
> WARNING: kinda graphic spew scene, so skip to the second perspective change (indicated by "~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~") if you're squeamish, but there _is_ some important plot woven into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I thank ye for sticking with this story as it capsizes like a leaf-boat. 
> 
> Notes are (like usual) at the end, and I claim full responsibility for any mistakes. Just a heads up: I've ~~sort of~~ introduced some religion, but not as a plot point, so if there's anything rude or inaccurate in that regard, I'm sincerely sorry. Please let me know and I'll fix it as soon as I can. Thanks~
> 
> Disclaimer: you know how it goes, don't sue me.
> 
> Also, I want to post a picture to this fic, but can’t work out how. If anybody knows, please help! It’s not a pic off the internet, so I don’t have a web address for it.

You can find a picture of the mentioned crucifix [here](https://www.dhresource.com/0x0s/f2-albu-g6-M01-AD-09-rBVaR1s9kt-AfUjBAAKSgE4UmmM503.jpg/antique-silver-traditional-large-crucifix.jpg).

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al cursed as he searched the kitchen cupboards for his vodka. He sniffed at the water pitcher, hoping that it was there, but it wasn’t. He was leaning over the sink, woozy and about to give up, when he smelled the familiar tang. He fished his crucifix out of his shirt and sent up a quick prayer. _Please_ , he thought, _please don’t tell me Nippy’s gone and thrown it out_. He touched the cool metal of the sink, then brought his fingertip to his lips. Shit. He couldn’t taste any vodka, so French Fries must have poured it directly into the drain. It didn’t really matter; Al couldn’t get it back now anyway, but it meant that either Nippy had been thinking carefully about it or it had been premediated. Al wasn’t sure which was worse. On one hand, it meant that he’d underestimated the little guy, but on the other it meant that French Toast had a malicious streak that Al hadn’t known about.

 

Suddenly, his stomach heaved and the room spun. Al groaned and wondered if he’d be able to make it to the bathroom. Deciding he would, he ran down the hallway, kicking off his shoes as he went. He hunched over the bathroom sink and retched. He heard Nippy come into the room behind him and felt him lay his hand on Al’s shoulder. He retched again. He closed his eyes, trying to fight the rising nausea.

 

“It’s alright,” Nippy murmured gently. “Better out than in.” Al wanted to nod in acknowledgment but his gut chose that moment to empty itself. He hissed, nose and throat burning. Nippy rubbed circles on his back calmingly. Al sucked in a deep breath while he could.

 

“I’ll be right back, _oui_?” French Fry patted his shoulder and left. Al was kicking himself for drinking so much earlier. The drunken bliss was wearing off now, and he was starting to really feel the effects. His head was throbbing and his gut was swirling angrily –  hell-bent on punishing him for trying to poison it. He opened his eyes and glanced at the mirror. He looked like shit. He threw up again, eyes watering.

 

Suddenly, Nippy was back and placing a cool, damp dishcloth against the back of his neck. He managed to get Al’s jacket off him and held his hair out of his face. Al couldn’t tell him at that moment, but he really appreciated it.

 

What felt like an hour was spent gagging, heaving and gasping for air in between. Nippy rubbed his back patiently and made soothing noises. Eventually, the vomiting turned to dry retching and Al was able to breathe a little more freely. French Toast had thoughtfully fetched a box of tissues, and he helped Al clean up. Al straightened up, his back crying out from the uncomfortable position he’d been in. Once he’d brushed his teeth, Nippy gently took him by the hand and led him to his bedroom.

 

He made sure Al wasn’t going to be sick again before trotting off to fetch him some water. Al changed into a sleep shirt, but decided to forego the pants. He had a feeling that tonight would be spent tossing and turning, and he didn’t want to have to wrangle with his clothes now, as well. He slipped under his blanket and tried to stay awake.

 

He must have dozed off, because he was woken up a few minutes later when Nippy came back with a glass of water and a plate. Al smiled groggily. The little guy set the glass down on Al’s bedside cabinet and handed him the plate, sitting on the edge of his bed. On it were two painkillers and a piece of toast with what looked like salt.

 

“I called Larry, and he said to make you eat something salty and easily digestible. He said it would help to get your mineral levels back to normal.” Nippy shrugged, gesturing to the toast. “The painkillers are because I imagine you must have quite the headache now, _non_?” Al managed a wry smile.

 

“You have no idea.” He rasped. French Fry smiled, and patted Al’s knee absentmindedly. Al downed the tablets, and took a nibble of the toast. It was surprisingly satisfying; it was warm outta the toaster, and Al realised that he’d been desperately craving the salt. After he’d eaten, Nippy helped him lay down and get comfortable. Al was okay enough now to do it himself, but the attention-slash-affection was welcomed.

 

Nippy made sure that he was going to be alright, before saying goodnight and quietly shutting the door behind him, switching the light off as he went. Al lay awake for a long while – he saw the lights go off in the rest of the apartment through the gap under the door, and knew that Nippy had gone to bed. What _the hell_ had possessed him to lean over and kiss French Fry? Right on the lips, no less! Al realised that he’d shown his cards before either of them were ready to deal with what came next.

 

But despite the embarrassment, he found himself grappling with the warm feeling he had in his chest; he hadn’t felt this way in many years. The first time had been when he married his wife, the second when he realised that he was in love with Lucky Luciano, and now the third time was for a small French emperor. As he drifted off, Al couldn’t help but notice that, out of his three loves, two were with men.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon knew something was wrong when Capone sprinted into the bathroom. He never ran anywhere unless it was serious. He followed him worriedly. His flatmate was leaning heavily on the bathroom counter, retching into the sink. Napoleon was immediately sympathetic, despite his earlier dread at having to clean up such a mess. At least Capone wasn’t going to be sick on the floor – or himself. Napoleon touched his shoulder, and murmured comforting words to him. There followed a few moments where Capone gagged painfully, before finally being sick. Napoleon patted his shoulder sympathetically and left to fetch a damp dishcloth for his neck. It made _him_ feel better when he was ill, so he hoped it would ease Capone’s struggles a little.

 

In the kitchen, he wondered if he should ask Larry for help, as nursing _really_ wasn’t his field of expertise. Deciding that it was better to be safe than sorry, he called his friend. Larry picked up on the third ring.

 

“Hey, Napoleon. How are you?”

 

“I’m alright, but Capone isn’t, unfortunately.”

 

“Oh no. What happened?” Larry asked, sounding concerned. Napoleon sighed.

 

“He’s had too much to drink, and is now being sick.” He explained. “What can I do to help?” There was a pause on the other end.

 

“Have you tried giving him water? Is he being sick right now?” Larry replied. Napoleon listened for a moment.

 

“Not right at this moment- no, wait. Yes he is.”

 

“Give him some water as soon as it looks like he’s done, and something salty to eat; something he’ll be able to keep down. I give Nicky a piece of toast with some salt on it when he’s sick, and it always makes him feel better. It’ll help get Al’s minerals get back on track, although it might make him even more dehydrated.” Larry told him. Napoleon nodded, then remembered that he couldn’t see him. “If he’s been really drunk, you also probably wanna give him a couple of painkillers as well.” Larry added. “Just out of curiosity, how- how much did he actually have?”

 

Napoleon thought about it for a moment.

 

“Several glasses of wine, about a third of a bottle of whiskey, something that was on fire, and a few toxic-looking shots.”

 

Larry was silent for a while. Then he gave a low whistle.

 

“Make sure you’ve got plenty of painkillers on hand; he’s going to be in a _horrible_ mood tomorrow.” He said, and Napoleon thought he heard a little awe in his voice. _Fair enough,_ he supposed. Capone had drunk enough to floor a lesser man, but had somehow managed to – mostly – stay on his feet.

 

“Who are they for?” Napoleon joked.

 

“Both of you.” Came Larry’s reply. He sounded completely serious. Napoleon swallowed apprehensively. He thanked Larry for the advice, then hung up. Lord help him; Capone was going to have the hangover of the century tomorrow.

 

He remembered the dishcloth and went back to the bathroom with it, grabbing some tissues along the way. He gently placed the cloth across the back of Capone’s neck, and carefully manoeuvred him out of his jacket. As he held Capone’s fringe out of his face, he couldn’t help but notice how feverish his skin felt. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and his skin was hotter than it should have been. Napoleon tsked sympathetically. They stayed this way for about twenty minutes longer whilst Capone, the poor man, brought up the contents of his stomach. Every time he tried to draw enough breath to refill his lungs, it would start up again and he’d end up gasping for air every few seconds. It was almost painful to watch; Napoleon knew that his flatmate would be feeling even worse when this all stopped.

 

Finally, the vomiting ceased and he was able to help Capone clean both himself and the sink. It wasn’t pretty, the Frenchman had to admit, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the things he’d seen in his time. Heaven knew that during the Revolution, people were losing their heads – literally – left right and centre, as out-of-control crowds paraded around with the heads of previous victims impaled on spikes held aloft like banners of war. He waited patiently for Capone to finish brushing his teeth, then led him back to his room.

 

After making sure that he wasn’t going to be sick again, Napoleon returned to the kitchen to make a piece of salty toast for him, like Larry advised, and poured a glass of water. While he waited for the toast to finish, he thought about the kiss from earlier. Capone had obviously been smashed beyond the point of thinking properly, so the Frenchman was wrong in wanting to follow it up with a kiss of his own. But didn’t alcohol reduce one’s inhibitions? By that reasoning, Capone had also wanted it and it was thus justifiable for Napoleon to hope. But he’d been _so_ drunk – there was no way he knew what he was doing! He had probably thought Napoleon was a woman. But what if he hadn’t? Then he was simply experimenting, and it didn’t mean anything to him. The Frenchman wrestled with these thoughts, developing arguments and counter-arguments for every possible scenario and doing exactly what he did best – overthinking.

 

He was still stewing when he handed Capone the plate – he’d fetched two painkillers, as well – and perched on the edge of the mobster’s bed. He must have been sleeping, because he smiled weakly at Napoleon when he entered the room.

 

“I called Larry, and he said to make you eat something salty and easily digestible. He said it would help to get your mineral levels back to normal.” He explained, seeing Capone’s slightly confused look. He gestured to the plate. “The painkillers are because I imagine you must have quite the headache now, _non_?” Capone smiled tightly.

 

“You have no idea.” He replied, his voice scratching in his throat. Napoleon patted his knee, before realising what he was doing. He almost panicked and pulled away, but managed to get himself back under control before Capone noticed. _Don’t panic,_ he thought. _Just play it off like it’s nothing. If he mentions it, tell him it’s simply a brotherly thing to do. From the 1800’s. French. Yes. Okay._ He took a deep breath. Capone glanced up at him, but immediately returned his attention to his food. He’d downed the pills in record time, and was more than halfway through the toast.

 

Whilst he ate, Napoleon’s thoughts drifted. He decided to review his Italian tomorrow, and maybe try to teach Capone to speak – or at least read and write – French. He also wondered how he’d found a friend in the gangster, as they were such different people. He was a mostly peaceful person, albeit sometimes rather excitable, whilst Capone was quickly angered and more than a little vengeful.

 

After his flatmate had finished eating, Napoleon helped him to lay back and get comfortable despite suspecting that he could probably do it himself. The poor thing looked ready to pass out already. Napoleon bid him goodnight, although it was only about quarter-to-seven. As he left, he made sure to turn out the light. He wasn’t sure if Capone would appreciate that, but he needed sleep if he wanted to feel better. He padded through to the kitchen and made himself some tea.

 

That done, he fetched his book and settled down in front of the heater to read.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. He squinted against the dim sunlight that filtered in through the curtains, and tucked his head back under the covers. As he lay there, slowly waking up, he felt his head begin to ache. Good God, he’d only been awake for a few minutes and already a migraine was throbbing behind his eyes. He was also fairly certain that he had just won the award for the worst cottonmouth in history. He stayed in bed for a while, debating whether or not it would be worth getting up and braving the morning in order to brush his teeth.

 

As the air under the covers turned stale, Al scolded himself. He would have to get up eventually, so why lie around suffering? Besides, he needed to piss. He spent the next few minutes psyching himself up before actually sitting up and flinging the covers off himself. He stood up decisively but immediately sat heavily back down. His headache stabbed painfully at his eyes and everything was tinted red.

 

He put his head in his hands and tried not to be sick. Again. Nippy had been an angel last night, making sure he was okay and helping him feel better, but Al didn’t think he’d appreciate having to deal with a repeat first thing in the morning. He glanced over at his alarm clock and saw a number. He blinked at it, uncomprehending. One-twenty-four-p.m. That was . . . not the number he’d expected.

 

One-twenty-four! _Maria, madre di Dio!_ He thought wildly. He hadn’t meant to sleep for so long! Al cursed himself and managed to stand up again. As he staggered to the door, his head gave a particularly nasty throb and he stumbled into the wall. He swore.

 

Somehow, he managed to everything he needed to do _and_ made it to the bathroom, only slamming into a doorframe once. He fumbled his toothbrush out of the glass and looked in the mirror. He looked like death; there were racoon-worthy shadows under his eyes, his hair was a rat’s nest and he was pale as a ghost. He sighed. He never learnt his lesson, did he? Every drink had a hangover, every high had a low, and every night had a morning after. God knew it felt so good at the time, though. While he brushed his teeth, Al mostly spaced out and tried to ignore his headache. Failing that, he glared at his reflection miserably.

 

After about six minutes, he finally felt that his mouth was clean enough. As he made his way into the kitchen in search of coffee, he noticed Nippy silhouetted against the window, looking out. Al squinted. The curtains were drawn back and the sun was shining unusually brightly, for a New York winter. Just as he turned, French Fries saw him. Al thought he smiled, but couldn’t be quite sure. The sun was too bright and he could barely see anything through the pain of his headache.

 

“It snowed this morning!” Nippy said happily, mercifully moving away from the window to where Al could see him better. That explained the light. Al grinned half-heartedly; he loved the snow. Pity he was feeling too crappy to go out and mess around in it. As Nippy got closer, the little guy gave a low hum. Before he could open his mouth, though, Al forestalled him.

 

“ _S_ _í_ , I look like a crackhead in withdrawal, you don’t have to say it. Let me have my coffee. I ain’t really awake yet.” He grumbled irritably, pressing at his temples. He could feel his pulse thrumming there, and could hear the blood pounding in his head. He needed a painkiller, and soon. French Fry nodded. For some reason, that pissed Al off. He didn’t need somebody telling him how shit he looked, and agreeing when _he_ said it was just as bad.

 

He disappeared into the kitchen with an angry huff. As he set about making his coffee and grabbing meds for his migraine, he made the furious resolution _never_ to drink again. A small, cynical part of him laughed at that; he was a borderline alcoholic, for God’s sake! There would _always_ be another drink, and like hell he was getting locked up in a mental institution for it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I feel like Al would be Catholic – not, like, super devout but just enough to be considered religious. I am not that familiar with Catholicism so I would like to sincerely apologise for any mistakes.  
> \- His crucifix is made of silver, and he wears it on a thin chain around his neck.  
> \- Al would have been okay if he’d just sat quietly or slept, but all that digging around in the kitchen upset his stomach. He’s also not had any water (except one glass that he drank too fast) since the day before, so he’ll be really dehydrated – not a winning combination.  
> \- The salt-on-toast thing works beautifully for me when I’m sick, so I figured it would work for Al, too.  
> \- Both Al and Lucky were in romantic relationships already when they got together, but wasn’t a huge deal for them – due to the level at which they were within the organised-crime scene, it was really difficult to stay totally loyal to one person, and many of the big mafia bosses were in more than one relationship at any given time. They ran prostitution rings; how honest were they, really?  
> \- During the French Revolution, angry crowds did actually carry the heads of those they’d killed around with them. Historians reckon it was possibly the bloodiest revolution of all time, with around 40 000 to 50 000 recorded deaths. Fun fact: Marie Antoinette did not actually say “let them eat cake” – that, amongst many other unsavoury stories, was made up. People hated her mostly because she was Austrian (Austria was one of France’s greatest enemies at the time), and because she was the Queen.  
> \- Naps is 110% an overthinker.  
> \- They have a standard electrical heater. Al wants a fireplace, but an apartment or house with one is currently way out of their budget.  
> \- I have never seen actual snow, so I’m going to channel the enthusiasm I have for it through Al and Naps. For those of youse who see it on a regular basis, bear with me.  
> \- Supposedly (and I don’t _fully_ trust my source here) Al did cocaine for a while. Idk how long for, but he did it.  
> \- I apologise for the repetitive use of the word ‘painkiller’ – I don’t want to mention any brands or colloquial names. ~~Suing, y’know?~~  
>  \- The mental institution Al references is rehab for alcoholism. I don’t imagine they were very nice places to be during his time. 
> 
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Oui – yeah (in this context it’s like ‘I’ll be right back, yeah?’)  
> \- Non – no (used in a similar way to ‘-- yeah?’)  
> \- Maria, madre di Dio – Mary, mother of God  
> \- Sí – yes


	7. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al recovers from his hangover, Napoleon cooks, and they receive some worrying news. Also, things are about to get hellishly complicated for their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that this chapter _does not_ read so well (it's a bit sluggish), so consider it a filler until I can find the inspiration to write properly. I want to once again thank you lovely readers; your comments make my day every time!
> 
> I'm trying to reincorporate some actual plot into the story but it's proving a difficult thing to get off the ground. I've also just done exams, so I am _exhausted._
> 
> General disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I do own the mistakes, please enjoy, next chapter coming ~~eventually~~ soon

I envision Al as having [this](https://www.menshairstylestoday.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/Pretty-Boy-Hairstyle-Undercut-with-Medium-Length-Hair.jpg) hairstyle, but not as short on the sides. When he’s making an effort, he puts a bit of gel or whatever in it and brushes it back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Napoleon was standing near the window just after lunch, gazing out at the thick blanket of snow that enveloped New York, when he heard Capone’s door open. A moment later he heard a thud, followed by a decidedly choice word. He stifled a chuckle. His poor flatmate was – by the sound of things –  walking into walls, no doubt on account of his hangover. A few minutes later, he appeared in the hallway, his footfalls considerably heavier than usual. Napoleon turned to greet him.

 

“It snowed this morning!” He exclaimed cheerily. A fresh fall of snow was always beautiful, despite being a death sentence for his garden. Capone gave a forced smile. Napoleon took in the dark shadows under his eyes, his gaunt cheeks and his rather dishevelled appearance. He stepped away from the window to get a closer look, wondering if he should close the curtains. He opened his mouth to offer coffee but Capone held up his hand.

 

“Sí, I look like a crackhead in withdrawal, you don’t have to say it. Let me have my coffee. I ain’t really awake yet.” He growled, eyebrows pinching together. He lifted his fingers to his temples and rubbed a small circle there. Napoleon noticed that his eyes were bloodshot. Before he could say anything, however, Capone had swept – well, if bumping into the fridge on the way counted as sweeping – into the kitchen.

 

Napoleon raised his own eyebrows. Larry had been absolutely right; Capone was in a _foul_ mood. He suddenly realised that the sunlight reflecting dazzlingly off the snow was probably not helping his headache. Feeling slightly sheepish, Napoleon drew the curtains to halfway. It was a little better, but he didn’t want to close them completely during the daytime. Capone would just have to down some painkillers and deal with it.

 

From where he stood, he could hear him muttering darkly in Italian and occasionally dropping what sounded like a spoon. Every time it happened, the muttering was interrupted by a sharp curse. Napoleon listened carefully for a minute. He had brushed up on his Italian that morning, but he was still a bit rusty and figured that actually hearing the language being spoken would help. Capone seemed to be complaining about the sun, and mornings, and alcohol and . . . something else . . . something he kept repeating. Napoleon thought he heard what sounded like “damn the french fries”, but _that_ didn’t make sense. He wanted to ask, but didn’t want to admit that he’d been listening. Eventually, curiosity won out and he ventured into the kitchen.

 

Capone was stirring the coffee in his mug, staring unseeingly out of the window. The muttering had slowed almost to a halt, and ceased completely when he raised the cup to his lips. Napoleon cleared his throat awkwardly. How did one go about asking a question that revealed very obvious eavesdropping? He decided to just take the shot and be done with it.

 

“Uh, Capone,” he began. The gangster didn’t shift his gaze but made a sound of acknowledgement. “I couldn’t help overhearing, but what does ‘damn the french fries’ mean, exactly?”

 

“ ‘Couldn’t help overhearing’. Hmph.” Capone replied. “As if you _weren’t_ standing there listening.” Napoleon bristled at the disdainful tone. He also noticed that Capone hadn’t answered the question. He tapped his foot, waiting for elaboration. Capone glanced over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t tap.” He said brusquely. “Irritatin’. And to answer your question, think about it; what do I call _you_?” He returned to his coffee. Napoleon was confused – what did Capone’s nicknames for him have to do with anything? He thought about them, puzzling over the hint. _Nippy; French Fries; French Toast; shortstack_. . . wait.

 

“You didn’t mean ‘damn Napoleon’, did you?” He asked suspiciously. Capone nodded, then winced. He drained the last of his coffee and turned to face the Frenchman. He towered over him, but Napoleon refused to be intimidated. Capone had done this before and would do it again, so he now knew what to expect. They faced off silently for a few tense seconds. Capone sighed, and ran a hand through his already messy hair. He clearly hadn’t been bothered to brush it when he woke up, and it distracted Napoleon with the way it fell around his face.

 

The mobster threw up his hands in frustration and nudged past him. Napoleon almost turned to continue the argument, but stopped himself. Capone was in an already bad mood, and it wasn’t likely to be a good idea to antagonise him. Napoleon huffed a little and returned to the living room to admire the snow.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al didn’t really notice his own muttering until French Toast came striding into the kitchen and demanded he explain himself. Al didn’t look away from the window, although he’d only been staring off into the distance. He had yet to find something for his migraine, and coffee probably wasn’t going to help with anything but making him a _slightly_ more articulate zombie. He’d answered and dismissed Nippy with minimal words, but the little guy hadn’t taken the hint. It became obvious that they were going to butt heads – hopefully only figuratively because Al was pretty sure he might actually pass out if he took a knock to the head now, on top of everything else – and he really didn’t have the energy for that.

 

He sighed, conceding defeat, and left the kitchen. Nippy was standing right in the doorway, but he wasn’t nearly broad enough to corner Al.

 

Al found some painkillers, changed into sweatpants and a hoodie, and attempted to untangle his hair. He gave up after encountering the eighth knot in three minutes. He spent the rest of the afternoon napping on the sofa, a bottle of water and the strip of meds close at hand.

 

Much later, he was woken up by the smell of dinner. He extricated himself from the nest of pillows he’d somehow accumulated, and stretched luxuriously. Luckily, his headache had eased considerably now that he’d had enough sleep to put a hibernating bear to shame. He made his way back into the kitchen, where Nippy was tending to a pot on the stove. Whatever he was making smelled amazing, and Al’s mouth watered. The little guy had on a pair of blue jeans which hugged his legs from hip to ankle. His jumper had ridden up at the back, and Al couldn’t help but notice how his jeans also fitted snugly against his ass.

 

He shook his head like a dog ridding its ears of water. He wasn’t supposed to look at his friend like that. They were only friends, and Nippy probably wouldn’t even _speak_ to him if he found out. He came up behind him with the intention of checking out what was in the pot, but he must have moved more quietly than he thought because French Fry jumped a mile, dropping the ladle. He spun around and glared up at Al. The height difference was unmistakeable in this proximity.

 

Al held up his hands in a placating gesture and took a step back. He was in a much better mood now, but still didn’t want to throw down with his flatmate. Nippy eyed him suspiciously.

 

“Don’t worry,” Al explained. “I just wanted to see what was for dinner.” Nippy crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto one foot. The movement made his hip stand out, and Al absolutely did _not_ look. He focused on French Fry’s face instead.

 

“We’re having chicken korma.” Nippy finally relented, turning to fish the ladle out of the pot. “Unless you would rather have something that is not as rich?” He added thoughtfully. Al shook his head.

 

“No, korma’s good. Thanks.” He said. French Toast nodded, and instructed him to start with the rice.

 

No sooner were they ready to dish up, when Al’s phone rang. He glanced at it and saw it was Larry. Figuring it was important – Larry wouldn’t call at dinnertime, his manners were better than that – he picked up.

 

“Hey.” Larry greeted, sounding harried. “Are you guys busy?” Al raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, we’re about to eat. What’s going on?”

 

“I, uh, I need you guys to come down to the Smithsonian. A-S-A-P.” Larry replied. Al shook his head in exasperation. He saw Nippy looking at him curiously, about to spoon rice onto a plate. Al motioned for him to wait.

 

“Why? Is something happening?” He asked Larry. There was a heavy sigh on the other end.

 

“The tablet’s acting up and I want you guys back here, just in case. If that thing’s working again, you’re gonna be too far away from the museum when the morning comes. You know what happens then.” Larry explained carefully. Al nearly dropped his phone. He must have been standing there looking shocked, because Nippy gently touched his arm.

 

“What is it?” He asked, worried. Al thanked Larry and hung up, before turning to his friend.

 

“Put the food into containers to go; we have to get back to the Smithsonian. Now.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The drive to the museum was very tense. Capone had relayed Larry’s message, and Napoleon felt a strong sense of foreboding. It seemed that the Tablet of Akhmunrah had risen from the dead –  not unlike its owner, really. He had built a good life here, and the thought of losing that was unbearable. He enjoyed the quiet early mornings, and being able to wear what he liked (his military uniform was rather uncomfortable), and of course, he enjoyed his job.

 

Napoleon looked over at Capone. His jaw was set, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His gaze was fixed on the road ahead. He was quiet and calm, but Napoleon sensed that he was quite tightly strung. Suddenly, another car cut in front and Capone snarled. He swore furiously at the other driver, before taking a deep breath and glancing at Napoleon.

 

The Frenchman smiled, signalling that he was alright, but his heart was thudding. He was still a nervous driver himself, and hated it when other road users didn’t behave how they were supposed to. He did have to admit, however, that Capone was phenomenal at it.

 

When they arrived at the Smithsonian, Capone made sure to park somewhere out of the way. He explained that he didn’t want it to be noticeable, should they get stuck inside the building for a while. Napoleon trotted through the door and was greeted by Larry, Akhmunrah and a handful of others, including Kahmunrah and Ivan. The young pharaoh smiled apologetically, clutching the accursed tablet to his chest.

 

“Sorry to drag you away from your supper,” Larry said, running his hand through his hair and fidgeting a little. “I wouldn’t have called you out here if it wasn’t really important.” Napoleon waved him off reassuringly. It wouldn’t do for Larry to carry this weight with him – he was at no fault, and had no reason to feel bad about it.

 

Just then, Capone came over from where he had been greeting and consoling his own boys. His eye was twitching slightly. Napoleon tilted his head questioningly.

 

“They want to know everything; _what’s_ happenin’, _why_ is it happenin’, what am I gonna do about it, blah blah blah. I think I told ‘em about a hundred times, I don’t know any more’n they do and that there’s nothin’ I _can_ do!” He grumbled. Akhmunrah chuckled.

 

“My apologies.” He said. “The tablet is coming back to life, and it might revert us all to museum exhibits. I would never forgive myself if somebody . . . uh, _passed on_. . . because they were unaware.” Capone nodded and Napoleon sighed, somewhat morosely. _It wouldn’t be so terrible,_ he told himself. He’d get used to coming alive at night and remaining a wax figure during the day. Contemplating the pros and cons of his potential new life, he made his way over to where Mademoiselle Earhart stood, tugging on her fringe and stressing the hem of her jacket. They chatted for a while, catching up on each other’s news and trying to make light of the situation.

 

Suddenly, Larry’s son Nicholas – _Nicky_ , as he preferred – came bounding down the hallway, followed by Attila and the Huns. He saw his father and made a beeline for him. As he spoke, Larry’s face became more and more drawn until he looked like a damned man seeing his own noose. Whatever it was caught Capone’s attention, as well, but _his_ face lit up. He said something to Larry, confirmed with Nicky, and took off. Amelia shook her head.

 

“Always in such a hurry!” She exclaimed. “Why, it’s hardly as though they don’t know each other!” Napoleon was confused.

 

“Who knows each other?” He asked. Amelia gave him a look of surprise.

 

“You didn’t know? There’s a new exhibit here, and the tablet just brought them to life a few hours ago.” She replied. “Nicky must’ve been explaining the whole situation to ‘em.” Napoleon was still baffled. He gestured a bit, hoping to convey his question without having to repeat himself. Amelia took the hint.

 

“Lucky Luciano and his group are back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Al swears constantly. I’m sorry.   
> \- The best way to become fluent in another language (or so I’ve been told) is to speak and hear it spoken as often as possible.   
> \- Al has my sense of style when it comes to casual dress, and Napoleon has my friend’s.   
> \- Naps felt bad for pushing Al’s buttons earlier, so he brought the pillows off of Al’s bed and tucked them in around him while he napped. I didn’t write that into the story because there’s a plot point that we need to get to, and because things were getting kinda stagnant.   
> \- Chicken korma is like a mildly spicy curry-type thing, best served on rice.   
> \- Amelia tugging her fringe is a nervous twitch, sort of like biting your nails.


	8. Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huh. This chapter has some _actual_ planning this time. 
> 
> Al is already having a hard enough time figuring out his own feelings. Throw in the other half of an old relationship, an indecisive Tablet and a friend who's suddenly acting weird, and things are going to get complicated. Akhmunrah also proves himself to be a good source of advice and a shoulder for Napoleon to cry on. Figuratively, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful readers - you guys are the best!!
> 
> First, my apologies for the last two chapters being really dry and incoherent. This chapter had some forethought, and if all goes according to plan, so will the rest from now on. 
> 
> General disclaimer: I don't own the characters, this is unbeta'd, translation by Google, and shout if there's any issues yeah?  
> ┐(´∀｀)┌

Al strode purposefully up the hallway, looking for the friend he thought he’d never see again. He rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into him. Lucky’s face broke into a grin. Al pulled him into a tight hug, which he returned with interest. Lucky let go almost immediately, though.

 

Al greeted the other four guys. He’d only seen them once or twice – the two gangs had never really mingled that much, with the obvious exception – so they all looked pretty much how he remembered. Lansky, short and intelligent; Costello, shrewd and calculating; Siegal, friendly and good-looking; Genovese, sharp and greasy.

 

“You look different.” Lucky commented. “Young.” Al shrugged, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. He was very aware of how casually he was dressed, compared to the others’ fancy suits.

 

“So do you. It’s how we’re shown in museums, how people remember us.” He replied, gesturing vaguely at the others. Lucky rolled his eyes.

 

“You’re gonna have to explain all this for me; nobody knows what the hell is goin’ on. Even _Frank_ can’t get his head around this one.” He groaned. Costello shook his head, and Al laughed. He put his arm around Lucky.

 

“It doesn’t exactly follow any logic. C’mon, I’ll explain what I can.”

 

He led them to one of the – now empty – exhibit rooms, bypassing the gift shop to nick a deck of cards. Once they were all settled sort of comfortably on the floor, Al shuffled the cards and distributed them. As they played, he did his best to explain the tablet situation. Lucky didn’t say much and just listened – as was his way – but the other four, Lansky in particular, asked dozens of questions each. Unfortunately, Al could only answer half of them. About an hour and a half later they got up to explore the museum, satisfied with what they’d heard. Al and Lucky stayed behind.

 

Lucky watched as his boys disappeared around the corner, nudging each other and bantering good-naturedly. As soon as they were gone, he turned back to Al and studied him carefully, his face betraying nothing. Al met his gaze with an equally blank look. Suddenly, Lucky’s poker face cracked and he smiled. Soon, they were laughing and chatting like nothing had changed. Slowly, they quieted back down to enjoy each other’s presence.

 

Al hummed softly, thinking about the time they’d spent together before. He realised with a pang that he was caught between his feelings for Nippy and his resurfacing feelings for Lucky. Suddenly, his friend leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Al gave him a look of surprise. Lucky – to his credit – didn’t look away, but fidgeted. Al stilled him by pressing his lips to his former boyfriend’s.

 

The kiss was slow and deep, and Al revelled in the familiarity of it. Lucky was a little twitchy, no doubt still worried about being caught, despite having been told that this was perfectly acceptable now. Al tangled his fingers in his hair, and slowly he relaxed. Lucky caught Al’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently on it. Al made a noise low in his throat, and felt Lucky grin. He swiped his tongue over the other’s lips and Lucky opened up without any kind of fight, letting him in. One of his hands came up to rest on Al’s chest, and the other found the back of his neck to hold him close.

 

When they finally broke apart, breathing heavily, Al gently brushed his knuckles over Lucky’s cheek.

 

“I missed you . . .” he murmured. Lucky nodded mutely and rested his head on Al’s shoulder, lacing their fingers together. They stayed there for a while, not really feeling the need to break the silence, until Al’s stomach growled loudly. That drew a grin from his friend – _boyfriend?_ He wondered – and they stood up.

 

“Could do with a snack, now that I think about it.” Said Lucky, unconvincingly casual. Al remembered the food he and Nippy had brought with, and together they set off in search of it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon didn’t know anything about this Luciano man, so he wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He figured he was also a gangster, like Capone, but that didn’t really clear things up. He and Mademoiselle Earhart made their way over to a nearby bench and sat down to discuss it. Well, he sat – Amelia sort of . . . perched. She still looked a bit tense, and he could understand why. She loved being outdoors and exploring, so to be shut away during the day, and most likely part of the night, would be a heavy blow.

 

Napoleon realised he was still carrying the two containers of food. He set one down on the bench beside him, and was about to open the other when he realised that he didn’t have a fork.

 

“ _Merde!_ ” He said crossly, kicking himself for bringing something to eat but not something to eat _with_. Amelia looked at him with raised eyebrows, and he hastily apologised. He wasn’t sure if she spoke French or not, but just in case.

 

“No need to be sorry,” she smiled. “I just wasn’t expecting to hear _you_ swear like that!” Napoleon ducked his head sheepishly.

 

“I don’t usually.” He said. “But every second word out of Capone’s mouth is a curse, so it must be rubbing off on me.” Amelia giggled, a bright and feminine sound. She appeared to be relaxing, the worry disappearing from her face. Napoleon’s stomach reminded him of its emptiness, and he made a face.

 

“I’m going to find that ridiculous flatmate of mine, and ask if he brought the forks.” He announced, standing up. “Don’t eat my food.” He added as an afterthought. Amelia smiled mischievously, and waggled her eyebrows. Then she laughed, and waved him away.

 

“I won’t eat your supper, hungry man.” She reassured him, winking. Napoleon chuckled and went off in search of Capone. He tried to remember which direction the mobster had taken. He trotted toward where he’d last seen him, but he wasn’t there. Napoleon sighed. The Smithsonian was massive, and Capone could be anywhere. He decided to search for him methodically; room by room, although that may take all night.

 

The first few were empty, then one was occupied by a woolly mammoth and a few other large herbivores. The following room contained the Huns and a number of Native Americans, and in the next he found about a dozen statues that had somehow managed to get to this side of the museum whilst missing limbs (and sometimes heads). Eventually, he ran into a group of men who looked as though they might be gangsters. A small part of him was pleased to see that one of them was almost as short as him. He quickly introduced himself and inquired about Capone’s whereabouts.

 

“Hold up,” one of the men said, holding up his hand. “You’re Napoleon? Like, the French guy?” Napoleon nodded, slightly irked. The man looked at his friends, then shrugged. “Sure, why not? I mean, we’ve already dealt with cavemen and a walking tiki mask.” The other three chuckled, and they introduced themselves.

 

“You lookin’ for Al?” Asked the man named Vito, eyeing him. There was a cruel edge to his features, and Napoleon imagined him to be capable of terrible things. He nodded again, and Vito gestured to the hall from which they had just come. “He’s over there somewhere. Him and Lucky.”

 

Napoleon thanked them, and continued with his search. He hoped Capone had thought to bring forks – he was definitely hungry now. He stuck his head around a doorway and drew back in shock. He pressed himself against the wall, desperately praying that he hadn’t been seen. Capone and another man – presumably Luciano – were caught in an embrace, their lips moving against each other’s. Napoleon felt his heart crack, and it was all he could do to stay upright.

 

He’d been right; Capone’s feelings were not for him, but for someone else. An unwelcome tear slipped down his cheek and he staggered away, scrubbing at his face angrily. He had no right to be upset, he told himself savagely. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way to begin with, so it was actually _better_ that Capone didn’t return his affections.

 

He was distantly aware of his feet carrying him back through the maze of rooms and hallways, until he bumped into someone. A pair of strong hands caught his shoulders and steadied him. Napoleon looked up and saw the concerned face of Ahkmenrah. The young pharaoh gently led him to a nearby bench, and helped him sit down. He patted Napoleon’s arm, as the Frenchman tried to get his thoughts in order. He drew a deep breath and decided that he could trust Ahkmenrah with his secret. He fished for the words, and the Egyptian waited patiently. At first, Napoleon stammered and spoke in circles, but as he continued the words came easier and easier.

 

Ahkmenrah was a good listener; he made sympathetic noises in the appropriate places, and didn’t ask too many questions. Finally, Napoleon finished. He sighed heavily, and Ahkmenrah took his hand in his own.

 

“I know it hurts, but it’s going to be okay.” He said softly. “And you’re not wrong to have these feelings. It took me a long time to realise that, but I am so much more at peace for it.” Napoleon smiled sadly, sniffling a little. It was nice of him to say that, and Napoleon was infinitely grateful that his secret hadn’t been thrown back in his face. He gave a muffled sob, and buried his face in Ahkmenrah’s shoulder. The young man put his arms around Napoleon and held him quietly, while the Frenchman tried to pull himself back together.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Somehow, Al and Lucky managed to find their way back to the main entrance area without getting lost. Al chalked it up to Lucky’s near-perfect sense of direction, and also the map they found. Lucky was a few inches shorter than him, so Al took the opportunity to sling his arm around his shoulders. It was uncomfortable for Lucky to return the gesture, so instead he subtly leaned into it. Al scanned the room for Nippy, but didn’t see him.

 

“Wasn’t your friend talking to that Earhart woman?” Lucky murmured, as if reading Al’s mind. “Ask her where he went.” Al nodded, and they ambled over. When he asked, Miss Earhart got a confused look on her face.

 

“But he went looking for you?” She said, pointing at the containers next to her. “He was hoping you had a fork.”

 

“We nearly forked.” Lucky muttered in Al’s ear; his grin only just hidden. It took Al a second to understand, but then he swatted his friend and sniggered.

 

“We weren’t even close. You gotta work harder than that, c’mon.”

 

Miss Earhart was looking between them with a slight frown. Al sort of hoped she’d got it – that kinda thing was difficult to explain if she hadn’t. She looked ready to ask, but then shook her head.

 

“Napoleon went looking for you, but obviously didn’t find you. You don’t happen to have a fork, do you?” She asked instead. Al shook his head, wishing he’d remembered. Lucky fixed him with a look. He didn’t even have to open his mouth for Al to understand that he was being chastised. He waved his hand dismissively and Lucky rolled his eyes, smiling.

 

Just then, Nippy and Ahkmenrah appeared in the doorway. From this distance, Al couldn’t really see so clearly but French Toast seemed kinda upset. He wondered why. Giving Lucky’s shoulder a quick squeeze, he walked over to his friend to find out what was wrong. As he got closer, though, Ahk saw him and shook his head a tiny bit. Al frowned, confused, but didn’t go any closer. Nippy would explain at the right time, he guessed.

 

Then a few things happened at the same time: there was a loud crack, a yell, another crack, and Al felt something, sort of . . . release . . . in his chest. He looked instantly to where Larry’s kid was crouched over the tablet, which was lying on the floor in pieces. Ahk strode over to him, and Al understood what had happened.

 

“I’m so sorry!” Larry’s kid cried, wringing his hands. “I was holding it and it cracked, so I dropped it! Oh, Ahk, I’m so, _so_ sorry!” He sounded ready to cry. Ahk shook his head, and touched the kid’s shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” He said kindly. “It was a pest to begin with, and at least now we _know_ it’s not going to come back to life and catch us out.” He pulled the kid into a tight hug, before kneeling to examine the pieces. Someone touched Al’s shoulder and he jumped. It was Lucky. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes asked; “ _now what?_ ” Al shrugged.

 

“I guess now you need a place to stay, yeah?” He said, and his friend nodded. “Come stay with me an’ Nippy for a while; ‘til you can get ya own place.” Lucky smiled gratefully, then bit his lip. Al’s gaze was drawn to the gesture. Lucky’s lips were still pink from their kiss.

 

“What about my boys? I can’t ask you to house all five of us.” He murmured contemplatively. Al thought about it for a moment.

 

“We can spread ‘em out.” He suggested. Lucky raised an eyebrow. “Nah, y’know’, they can live with a couple a’ different people for now. Like, Lanksy with Ahk, you and us, Genovese with Kahmunrah and Ivan, et cetera.” Al finished. His friend nodded, and the necessary arrangements were quickly made. Nippy didn’t look too thrilled when he found out, but Al didn’t feel like arguing over it now. He just wanted to get home so he could eat, and get Lucky accustomed to the twenty-first century before releasing him into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lucky and co.’s full names: Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello, Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegal and Vito Genovese ~~a slimeball if there ever was one~~  
>  \- Al managed to change into jeans before he and Naps left, so he _doesn’t_ look like he’s just woken up, thankfully.  
> \- I don’t know if the Smithsonian gift shop actually sells cards or not, and I couldn’t be fussed to check.  
> \- They’re playing Blackjack, because it doesn’t require a huge amount of concentration. You can chat about other things, and still keep the game moving at a relatively decent pace.  
> \- These guys gambled professionally (or at least semi-professionally), so they’ve got pretty impressive poker faces.  
> \- Lucky waits until his boys are gone before kissing Al because he is worried that they might turn on him, should they find out. They’re good guys (as far as the Mafia goes) but they are still very much in the early-mid 20th century mindset, and his and Al’s relationship was a total secret.  
> \- I actually love film!Amelia so much – she’s so pure, and an actual _icon_.  
> \- There are benches all over the Smithsonian, I imagine.  
> \- Sorry for the terrible pun/innuendo – I couldn’t resist! ~~For those of you who don’t get it; ‘forked’ sounds kinda like ‘fucked’ and Lucky is being a thirsty boi~~  
>  \- The word ‘pest’ is used in the same sense as ‘pain in the ass’, here.  
> \- The Lucky of this fic doesn’t say much, does he? Hmm. . .  
> \- Al explained (more or less) who’s who, so Lucky and the guys aren’t _totally_ in the dark.
> 
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Merde – shit (used as a curse)


	9. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are awkward between Al, Napoleon and Lucky. Al realises that Lucky doesn't have much to his name anymore, and they must go shopping. An argument is had and Napoleon is still sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I suddenly remembered that Al is _not_ , in fact, from New York and I can't technically refer to him as a New Yorker. BUT it's difficult to fix and work back into the story, so please assume that - whenever Naps refers to him as such - it is in the context of them actually living there now. Lucky _is_ from NY, though. 
> 
> General disclaimer: I don't own these characters, but I just love them so much!! 
> 
> A huge thank you to the lovely readers who are continuing to read this - it gives me much more confidence in my writing when I get that little comment notification on this story. This chapter is a little different, in terms of format, because there's just the one perspective change (instead of two) but I couldn't work another in without making the chapter three times the usual length.

Napoleon was not happy. Not only was another man the object of Capone’s affections, said man was going to be living with them for an indefinite amount of time. He didn’t know if he’d be able to cope with seeing the two of them together, in a relationship, even though he knew it was horribly selfish of him. Capone was allowed to have a lover. Besides, it was not as though Napoleon was ever going to be that person anyway.

 

The car ride home was uncomfortably quiet. Luciano insisted on sitting in the back, explaining that he wanted to see what his city looked like nowadays. Capone was apparently happy to let him, and instead focused on getting them home. Napoleon had too many thoughts racing around his head to organize, and he didn’t want to risk opening his mouth and saying something stupid. Every now and then, he glanced back at Luciano, hopefully unnoticed. The man didn’t say much, it seemed. He wondered how he and Capone had become friends, as the two appeared so different. He started when Capone nudged his shoulder.

 

“You’re quiet all of a sudden.” He said simply, giving Napoleon a curious look. “Usually you’re chatty as they come.” Behind them, Luciano made a small noise of amusement.

 

“I dunno how; nobody can ever get a word in around you.” He said, and Napoleon could hear the grin in his voice. Capone pouted, mock hurt.

 

“You an’ I both know that ain’t true!” He retaliated

 

“Uh huh. Sure it ain’t.” Luciano quipped, and Napoleon’s heart clenched. The banter between the two of them was so easy and familiar – he had no chance of ever getting to that level. He risked a glance at Capone, and saw him smiling openly at what Luciano had said. Before he could look away, however, Capone caught his eye. He tilted his head a tiny bit and his smile changed to something softer, more concerned. Napoleon knew what he was asking, but he didn’t trust himself to lie. Not to Capone’s face like that. Instead, he returned his attention to the scenery outside and hoped that he would get the hint.

 

Finally, they arrived home. As he hopped out of Capone’s massive car, he remembered their dinner. He reached around for it, but found he couldn’t reach where he’d put it. He was about to climb back up when Capone touched his arm.

 

“I’ll get that,” he said, handing Napoleon his keys. “Go and unlock, yeah?” The Frenchman wanted to argue that the door was too far away for it to make any difference, but he was too exhausted. He accepted the keys and trudged into the building. The two gangsters followed a moment later.

 

Napoleon tuned out their conversation and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and not tripping on the stairs. He felt like enough of an idiot after witnessing Capone and Luciano’s kiss; he didn’t need to prove it to their new flatmate by falling over. After what felt like days, they reached the door and he slipped the key into the lock.

 

Napoleon handed Capone’s keys back to him, and made a beeline for the kitchen. His stomach growled loudly as he fished a fork out of the drawer, and heated up his food. Finally, he was able to eat! He wolfed it down in record time, then took off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It was late, and he was keen to get to bed and sleep.

 

Once in bed, Napoleon took a deep breath and once again forbade himself from getting upset. _You have no right,_ he told himself. _No right to be sad about Capone kissing someone else!_ He tried not to think about it but every time he closed his eyes, he relived the scene from earlier. He curled up tightly, and bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to maintain control. He knew he’d get used to seeing Luciano every day, get used to seeing him and Capone together, and eventually get used to his own, broken heart.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Nippy was acting weird, and Al didn’t know why. He’d tried to check in on him during the drive home last night, but the little guy had brushed him off without a word. He guessed it had something to do with Lucky, but if Nippy was pissed at having another flatmate then he was, unfortunately, gonna have to get over it. Al understood needing some personal space but he couldn’t just leave his friend to fend for himself in a foreign century.

 

He decided not to push French Toast for an explanation, figuring that he would come to Al when he was ready to talk. This morning, though, Lucky needed to go shopping. Al planned to get into the city relatively early, to avoid the morning traffic, but getting out of bed was proving harder than he’d anticipated. He’d offered to sleep on the sofa and let Lucky have his bed, but his friend had insisted that wasn’t necessary. As a result, Al had woken up with Lucky curled against him and now there really wasn’t that much incentive to wake up properly.

 

Lucky shifted a little, fast asleep, and Al was able to extract his arm out from under his shoulders. He flexed his fingers, getting the circulation going again, and yawned. It was cold out, and Lucky was always warm and affectionate in the mornings. Al pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before mustering the willpower to wake up fully. He gently shook him awake. Lucky made a noise of protest and buried his face in Al’s neck.

 

“C’mon, darlin’. Wakey wakey.” Al smiled. Lucky was used to waking up sometime around eleven, so it was going to take an awful lot of coffee to keep him awake enough to go out, especially at this hour. This expedition was potentially going to take all day; Lucky liked to take his time shopping, whilst Al preferred to go, get exactly what he set out for, and come back without having spent hours window-shopping.

 

After Al spent entirely too much time crooning, coaxing and threatening to pull the covers off the bed, Lucky finally dragged himself into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Al went through to the kitchen and set about chopping bacon for breakfast. A few minutes later, Nippy appeared in the doorway. He looked irritated.

 

“Breakfast?” Al offered, even though he was already making for all three of them. French Toast nodded curtly and stepped into the kitchen for tea. He still looked like he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and Al turned to him with his arms crossed. He had a suspicion about why French Toast was in such a bad mood, but he wanted to make sure.

 

“Out with it.” He said, eyeing the little guy. Nippy raised an eyebrow.

 

“Your _friend_ is taking too long in the bathroom,” he answered sharply, “and I still need to get in there. Please tell him not to use all the hot water.”

 

Al sighed, ignoring the pointed inflection. Time to nip this in the bud, before it became too much of an issue.

 

“I don’t know why you have it in for Lucky. And don’t give me that look.” He added, seeing French Fry’s eyeroll. “I get that having a third person livin’ here’s gonna take some getting used to, but he’s got nowhere else to go. Besides, you don’t even know him – youse might actually get on really well, y’know.”

 

Nippy shook his head dismissively.

 

“I don’t ‘have it in for him’.” He said defensively. “I just. . . I don’t know him, and I don’t think it’s fair that you brought a total stranger into my living space. Without asking my permission, no less!” Al glared at him, tapping the back of the knife against his bicep.

 

“I live here too.” He pointed out. Nippy opened his mouth to argue his point, but Al beat him to it. “If one of your friends needed a place to crash and you let them stay with us, I wouldn’t be standing here bitchin’ about it!” He hissed. French Toast drew back, gritting his teeth. “I thought I was never gonna see him again.” Al added, driving his point home. There was a brief stand-off where he drew himself up to his full height and looked Nippy dead in the eye, and the little guy gave him a black look.

 

“I do not have a problem with him staying here.” He said curtly. Al tapped the knife a little faster, not believing a word. “The problem is that you didn’t think to talk to me first. You said it yourself: ‘I live here too.’” He finished a little smugly.

 

“Do not twist my words around like that!” Al snarled, actually angry now. Napoleon was being a little bitch, and it wasn’t fair on Lucky. “I was going to talk to you about it, but you were actin’ weird and you wouldn’t even _look_ at me. What was I supposed to do? Tell Lucky to find a hotel somewhere?” He slammed the knife, point-first, into the cutting board, so that he wouldn’t do something stupid with it. Napoleon's eyes widened and he took a half-step back. Al wasn’t finished.

 

“You don’t seem to remember that we were in _exactly_ the same situation, not that long ago!” He growled. “Lucky has no money, no house, _very_ little concept of how much the world has changed, and you want me to make him fend for himself out there? I don’t fuckin’ think so! He will stay here until he can get his own place, and I _will not_ have you raising hell for it, _capisca?_ ”

 

Napoleon furrowed his brows, but reluctantly backed down. Al turned back to the cutting board, satisfied that they weren’t going to have this argument again. He pulled the knife out - with some difficulty - and saw that it had pierced straight through and into the counter below. He closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He’d forgotten what he’d been cooking, and now he had enough chopped bacon for three people that he didn’t know what to do with. He huffed, and decided to make omelettes with it. They had this nearly every morning, and he was getting tired of it, but he was too angry to focus on making anything else.

 

Just as he was making the last one, he felt arms wrap around his waist. He looked over his shoulder, and Lucky smiled up at him.

 

“You’re tense.” He said quietly. He didn’t ask why, and Al guessed that he’d heard at least part of the argument. Instead, Lucky pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and dug knives and forks out of the drawer.

 

“D’you want me to call Napoleon?” He asked, clearly unsure what to do with himself. Al shook his head. “I’ll go, if you’ll look after the stove for me. He’s in a mood, and I’d rather he yells at me than at you.” Lucky gave him an apologetic look, which Al waved off.

 

He found Nippy coming out of the bathroom. The little guy’s hair was still damp and, if Al wasn’t still pissed at him, he would have appreciated how it went all fluffy while it was drying. He noticed Al and bit his lip. His nose and lips were kinda red, and he sort of looked like he’d been crying.

 

“You okay?” Al asked, immediately forgetting that he was supposed to be angry. He took a step closer, and Nippy shrank back a little. He nodded, giving Al a suspicious look.

 

“Come to yell at me some more?” He asked dryly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Al shook his head.

 

“Breakfast.” He explained. “Omelettes again, unfortunately.” French Toast nodded, and disappeared into his room with his pyjamas. Al stood there for a moment longer, his brow furrowed. Something was up with Nippy, and he wanted to find out why his friend seemed so upset lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lucky is a little overwhelmed at this point, so he just wants to sit quietly and get his thoughts together.  
> \- I actually feel horrible for subjecting Naps to this. It gets better for him, I promise!  
> \- Al has better people skills here than I think he actually had. . .  
> \- None of the big bosses had any particular obligation to wake up early in the morning, as most of their business was likely to have been conducted at night because aesthetic is important.  
> \- Lucky prefers to take a little time to think before he hands over money, not because he’s used to being financially troubled, but because he’s the kind of guy who carefully considers his options before making a decision.  
> \- I keep trying to write Napoleon’s accent, but it always comes out sounding more English than anything else. D:  
> \- Lucky’s properties are long-since sold, his fortune isn’t in his name anymore (idk if he had kids or not, but either way he can’t get his hands on it), and getting him a bank account etc. is going to be very difficult – he can’t exactly go waltzing into a bank and be like ‘hi, my name’s Lucky Luciano and I’m back, bitch’.  
> \- Al holds off with the nicknames when he’s angry with Naps, which – thankfully – isn’t very often.  
> \- Headcanon: Al is strong.  
> \- Al generally makes breakfast (and it’s not usually this early) and Naps looks after dinner. Al is a better cook, having looked after his family as well as he did, but both are good at it.  
> \- When Naps rubs his nose, it means he’s about to cry and subconsciously trying to distract anyone from it. It doesn’t really work because the movement draws attention to his face, but it sort of feels like hiding for him.
> 
> TRANSLATION  
> \- _Capisca_ – understand


	10. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and Lucky go into the city to shop, but they have a limited budget. Napoleon deals with his feelings in a much healthier way, and Ahkmenrah finally realises something. On the bright side, the attached strings are thinking of untangling - even though the various feelings are still a total mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to all you fabulous readers - you are the reason I stay up until two a.m. writing this, and enjoying it too! This is a _very_ long chapter, but I wanted to finish it on a good note for once.
> 
> General disclaimer, please don't sue me. 
> 
> A high five to those of you who spot the ~~tiny~~ Hercules reference in this chapter!! EDIT: I did a major edit of the end of this chapter because I wasn't happy with how it read. There's a few little changes throughout, but mostly during Ahk and Naps' phone call.

Napoleon walked out of the bathroom, sniffling a little, and almost walked into Capone. He looked away and clutched his pyjamas a little closer to his chest. He hadn’t meant to take his feelings out on anyone, but Capone had immediately been defensive of his lover and it had quickly spiralled into an argument.

 

Capone gave him a funny look – almost like he was sorry – and took a step toward him. Napoleon retreated the same distance, not willing to get within arm’s reach. He wasn’t scared of Capone but- actually, no; he was a little scared of him, and didn’t want to be close enough to touch if the man’s temper flared again.

 

“Come to yell at me some more?” He asked, masking his trembling voice with a dry tone. Tears prickled behind his eyes again and he rubbed his nose, more out of habit than anything else, and Capone shook his head. He was examining Napoleon, and looked somewhat concerned. The Frenchman felt a sudden twinge of anger. Capone was prone to sudden and severe mood swings, it seemed, and it wasn’t Napoleon’s problem to deal with! Why was _he_ always on the receiving end of the gangster’s sudden bursts of fury, followed with brief periods of peace and calm? It wasn’t fair. All he wanted was for this man to love him, as he was loved. . .

 

“Breakfast.” Capone stated, still looking a bit peeved but not nearly as much as before. “Omelettes again, unfortunately.” Napoleon nodded. Omelettes were alright, and Capone made nice ones, so no harm done there. He turned away and disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, forcing down the lump in his throat. This was really getting out of hand, now. _Get a grip,_ he thought to himself. _You are a General of the French Army, not some love-struck maiden!_

 

He remembered how Capone had slammed the knife into the cutting board, and how he’d seen it slice right through. The man was strong, Napoleon already knew that, but that had been a display of power like he’d never seen before. The Frenchman sometimes struggled to get the knife through a pumpkin, so for Capone to be able to get it through the solid wooden board without much _actual_ effort was quite impressive. And also terrifying.

 

He fetched his mobile off of his bedside table and pulled up the Internet. He quickly searched for something that had been niggling at the back of his mind. A number of articles appeared, and he opened the first one. He began to read about an incident that sent chills down his spine.

 

_. . . after finding out that two of his top hitmen were plotting to assassinate him, Capone called his inner circle to a meal, where he murdered both with a baseball bat – in plain view of the others. The killing was a clear warning: disloyalty within the ‘family’ would be greeted with death._

 

Napoleon swallowed. It seemed that Capone’s temper was far more explosive than he’d originally thought. He was suddenly glad that the knife had been embedded so deeply in the cutting board, and not still in Capone’s hand. If the man was capable of killing like that with a _wooden stick_ , imagine what he would do with an actual blade! He lost himself in his thoughts for a while, until there was a knock at the door.

 

“Hey.”

 

It was Capone, but he didn’t sound angry anymore.

 

“Lucky an’ I are goin’ out for a bit. Gonna take him shopping. You, uh, you wanna come with?” He asked hesitantly. Napoleon didn’t even consider accepting.

 

“No thanks.”

 

“Uh, okay. Yeah. Your breakfast’s in the microwave, _sì?_ ”

 

“ _Merci_.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Lucky had – predictably – worn the only thing he had, and Al realised at the last minute that he couldn’t go walking around New York in his fancy-ass suit. Well, he could, but he’d attract some stares and right now he needed to keep his head down. Al had been fortunate; he was younger than most pictures of him showed, so the majority of people wouldn’t be able to identify him. Lucky, on the other hand, looked exactly as he was remembered. The last thing they needed was for a history-savvy cop to recognise him and take him in for questioning. That would be a difficult situation to get out of, though Al hoped that, if there was any suspicion, it could be explained away by time; _technically_ , Lucky had died in 1962 and dead people didn’t come back to life, right?

 

He’d fished some clothes out his closet for his friend, but nothing really fitted him properly. Al was a few inches taller and _much_ broader across the shoulders but his pants only just fitted around Lucky’s considerably wider hips. His shirt hung off his friend’s frame and made him seem smaller than he actually was. He’d lent him pants, shirt and sweater but Lucky was still going to freeze in the snow. Al hummed, fetching his scarf out of a drawer. It was a soft, grey knitted thing and it looked really, _really_ good on Lucky. He swallowed appreciatively.

 

“Like what ya see?” His friend smirked, flicking an imaginary lock of hair over his shoulder dramatically. Al rolled his eyes.

 

“You’re such an idiot.” He replied, pulling Lucky in for a quick kiss. “Missed ya.” Lucky smiled and touched Al’s cheek.

 

“Missed you too, even though you nearly brought down the whole operation once or twice.” He chuckled. Al shook his head exasperatedly.

 

“It was _only_ _once_ and I didn’t mean for it to happen! My orders were ‘take out Moran’, not ‘execute the Irish’. How was I supposed to know my guys were gonna fuck it up so bad?” He huffed, pretending to be irritated. "Besides, you stepped in for me, so it's all good." Lucky laughed.

 

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, tough guy, we gotta get me some stuff. Can't go around wearing yours forever.” He put his hands on his hips, and Al grinned. He grabbed his keys on the way out, noticing that Nippy’s plate was in the sink to be washed later.  He felt bad about yelling at him earlier, but he also didn’t want Lucky to feel alone and out of place. _God_ knew he was confused. On one hand – he’d really, really missed his friend (benefits and all), but on the other – he was pretty sure he was falling in love with French Toast. Al knew he was an affectionate person, so maybe he was just desperately in need of someone to hold. Why were these things never as fucking straightforward as they should’ve been?! 

 

As they made their way down to the parking lot, Lucky grumbled about hotels not having this many stairs and that elevators were a thing. Al laughed, and told him that elevators were now a thing of the past. Lucky stopped and gave him a mildly horrified look, before realising that he was joking and threatened to cuff him over the back of the head.

 

When they got to Al’s car, he gave a low whistle.

 

“Damn, Al,” he hummed appreciatively. “Go big or go home, huh?” Al laughed at that, and nodded.

 

“That’s how you like it.” He replied, spreading his hands and quirking a brow cheekily. Lucky gave him a playful shove.

 

“You always have a dirty joke on hand, oh my _god_. Put you in pretty much any situation ever and _boom_. Gutter humour. Even when it's not appropriate, like that time you got us kicked out of that one party. Remember; the one with that chick with the funny eyes?”

 

Al couldn’t argue with that. They made their way out into the city and Lucky went a little quiet. Al let him be, knowing it was a lot to take in. The familiar concrete skyscrapers were mixed in with glittering glass office blocks and apartments, and _everything_ at street level was totally different. He decided to go somewhere at least partly recognisable – Lucky’s old hotel. He pulled into the parking lot, and his friend sighed softly.

 

“I feel so. . . lost.” He murmured, all playfulness from earlier gone, and Al touched his shoulder.

 

“I know.” He said softly. “You’ll get used to it quick enough, though, so don’t stress too much.” Lucky gave him a grateful smile, and got out the car. Once out in the biting cold, he shivered and tugged Al’s jacket tighter. Al locked his car, pocketed the keys and they took off. As they walked, he explained as much as he could about the modern world. He remembered to address a couple of red-flags that would get Lucky into trouble – like how to speak to women, not to take too much notice of German or Russian immigrants, and to watch out for political correctness.

 

“Wait wait wait. So, ‘political correctness’ basically means ‘don’t say shit to anybody because somebody’s gonna get pissed’?” Lucky asked skeptically. Al nodded.

 

“Pretty much. But, ah, don’t say that ‘coz. . .  yeah. Y’know.” He shrugged, giving Lucky a meaningful look. They spent the next few hours walking the ever-busy streets of New York, shoulders tense against the cold, trying to find what they needed within their price range. They were standing in a small enclave and warming their hands on hot take-away coffee, when Al realised that it maybe hadn’t dawned on Lucky that he was back to being a regular citizen, and was no longer a rich and powerful mob boss.

 

His friend was eyeing a shop across the road, and looked like he wanted _very much_ to spend a ridiculous amount of money in it. The shop glittered like a crystal chandelier and had the tiny part of Al that was secretly a magpie starry-eyed. Then he saw the name of the place and nearly choked on his drink, scalding the roof of his mouth.

 

_Swarovski_.

 

That was so far out of their budget it wasn’t even funny, but Lucky was clearly keen to go inside and Al wouldn’t be able to say no if he asked directly. He decided to catch him quick, before he could get dead-set on it. Once that happened, it took a hell of a lot to change his mind. 

 

“Hey,” he started, nudging his friend a bit. “I know you don’t wanna hear this, but it’s probably best if you don’t even look.” Lucky turned to him, a little confused. “Yeah, I see ya looking at _la gioielleria._ We don’t have unlimited cash anymore, remember?” Al finished gently, hoping it came out as kind and not condescending. Lucky frowned.

 

“Oh yeah. . .” he replied, looking a little crestfallen. Al put his arm around him, and led him off toward the city centre.

 

“C’mon, buddy. We still gotta get ya the interesting stuff.” He smiled, and Lucky brightened.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon spent an hour lounging around, trying to read his book but unable to focus on the words. He eventually put it down, having read the same paragraph at least a dozen times and not taken in any of it. He paced a bit, made some tea, checked the news, made some more tea, wandered about the apartment aimlessly, and eventually came to the realisation that he was desperately lonely. He carded a hand through his hair, and decided to see if Ahkmenrah was available to chat.

 

The young Egyptian worked in a rather high-end clothing store, and Napoleon could see why he’d gotten the job as fast as he had. The man had excellent people skills – he was patient and kind, although his sense of humour _was_ rather dark sometimes – and his fashion style was definitely to be admired – simple, form-flattering garb accentuated by large amounts of gold jewellery, which went beautifully with his skin. He was busy there almost all week, but Napoleon could not remember which shifts he took, only working four days a week himself.

 

Figuring that calling would do no harm, Napoleon rang his friend. He hoped Ahkmenrah was free, because he needed someone to talk to and didn’t feel like putting up with the somewhat awkward feeling that came with conversing with his men. He was, after all, their General and Emperor, so they tended to get a little starstruck when he tried to chat to them on a personal level. The phone rang a few times, and he was preparing to hang up when Ahkmenrah answered.

 

“Hi, Napoleon.” He said, and the Frenchman could hear the warm smile in his voice. “How are you?”

 

“I am alright,” he answered. “But lonely. Are you working today?”

 

“I am, actually. Sorry.” Ahkmenrah said, sounding a little sheepish. “But it’s okay, my lunch break only finishes in ten minutes, so we can talk for a bit.” Napoleon cheered up a little at that. “So, how are things going with you and Al?” Ahkmenrah asked shrewdly, not wasting any time in getting to the point. He seemed to be chewing on something, presumably his lunch.

 

“It’s. . . he’s just. . .” Napoleon struggled to put his feelings into words. He sighed. “He and I argued this morning, and then he disappeared off into the city with Luciano. Now, I _know_ that shouldn't be a problem, but. . . ugh. I can't explain it - every time I see the two of them together I get a pain in my chest. I don't know what to do."

 

Ahkmenrah hummed.

 

“Oh, hun.” He murmured sympathetically. “I’m sorry you’re hurting like this, and I wish I could be more of a help. Have you told him how you feel, or. . .?”

 

“ _Non_ , he doesn’t know.” Napoleon answered, trying not to think about how Capone would react if he did know. Tears threatened for the third time that morning, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“I know I’m no matchmaker, but maybe telling him _would_ help. . . ” Ahkmenrah said slowly. “I mean, he probably doesn’t even realise that something’s up – he’s a _guy_.” Napoleon chuckled at that. Truer words were never spoken. Then he frowned.

 

“I think he might know, actually. Or at least have an idea.” He said carefully, thinking back to when Capone had gotten so horribly wasted. “He _did_ kiss me once. . .” On the other end of the line, Ahkmenrah gasped.

 

“You didn’t tell me that!” He cried. “When? What happened?”

 

“It was when he got so damn drunk.”

 

"Ah, yes. That sounds just like him. Getting hammered, I mean. But tell me about this kiss of yours!"

 

Napoleon uhm'd and ah'd for a bit, unsure of where to start. He decided to start where Capone had convinced him to go to that restaurant with him.

 

“Gods above; he took you out for lunch, as well?” Ahkmenrah interrupted, sounding entirely too excited by this. Napoleon faltered, unprepared for that. He wrung his hands a little, fidgeting. He supposed one could look at it that way. . . but _surely_ it was only because Capone needed a guise for feeding his drinking habit at such an early hour.

 

“I don’t think I understand what you’re getting at. . .” He murmured, trying to connect the dots. On the other end of the line, Ahkmenrah laughed in disbelief. 

 

“Hun, I think he’s into you!”

 

Napoleon’s brain shut down for a brief moment. When it started up again, he shook his head vehemently.

 

“Impossible, Ahk! He's in love with Luciano, you and I both know that. He kissed me _once_ , and he was drunk as a lord when it happened.”

 

“Mmm, maybe he was, but alcohol makes you impulsive, right?” Ahkmenrah argued, clearly thinking hard. “He wouldn’t have kissed you – drunk or not – if he hadn’t wanted to before! Plus, he took you on a date and obviously cares about you. I mean, he wanted to check on you last night after you came to me, because you  _did_ look pretty upset. Okay, okay, I think all the pieces are coming together now - Al didn't complain when Larry proposed you two moving in together, he foots the better part of the rent so you can work in a bookshop, he makes you breakfast when he could just as easily only make for himself, he apparently wants to make sure that you're alright, _and_ he took you on a _date_ and then kissed you! And stop making excuses, okay?” He hurried on, forestalling Napoleon.  “He clearly likes you, so go for it, hun! My guess is that he doesn't have a clue how you feel, so this is all him nervously trying to flirt. Make sure you don’t distance yourself from him, because that’s only going to drive he and Luciano closer together. And seriously – if the absolute worst happens, you can always move in with me; I'm sure Attila won't mind.”

 

Napoleon opened and closed his mouth a few times like a goldfish, before realising that Ahkmenrah was right. If he didn’t act on his feelings, he would continue to bottle them up and agonize forever. He nodded, and thanked his friend from the bottom of his heart for finally talking some sense into him.

 

“You’re welcome, hun. I’ve got to go now, but I hope everything goes alright for you.” Ahkmenrah said kindly. “And one last thing – it’s probably not a good idea to ambush him, okay? Ease into it, but don’t stop.”

 

“Lord, _that_ sounded like an innuendo.”

 

“Exactly. Luv ya!” Ahkmenrah laughed, and hung up. Napoleon smiled, feeling better than he had in weeks. He decided to give Luciano a chance, and see how well they got on before making any judgements. Perhaps Capone was right, and the two of them would become good friends? There was only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naps dresses in the bathroom. He’s not about to walk around the flat in just a towel – not with Al there, at least.  
> \- From Napoleon’s point of view, Al is coming across as kind of abusive. I’ve decided to keep it that way because it reflects Naps’ warped perspective at the moment, even though it’s not nearly as bad as it seems.  
> \- Al would never deliberately hurt Naps. To clarify.  
> \- I just realised – in this fic, Al’s about 29 or 30 and Lucky’s probably closer to 45. . .  
> \- Lucky does not have ‘child-bearing’ hips. I repeat; Lucky does NOT have child-bearing hips. Al is just built like a fuckin triangle, tbh, Steve Rogers style.  
> \- Note how Al refers to Lucky as his friend, whilst Naps refers to him as Al’s lover. This is because these two bois canNOT COMMUNICATE OMG  
> \- When Lucky says that Al nearly brought the operation to its knees, he’s referring to the St Valentine’s Day Massacre. Al ordered a hit on a rival gangland boss, but it went wrong and seven people were killed in cold blood. The incident brought lots of attention to the Mafia, which thrives in the shadows. Many of the other big bosses were ready to have Al taken out but Lucky stepped in and managed to talk them down.  
> \- I don’t know the name of Lucky’s hotel, but I know that he lived there for ages until he was deported back to Italy despite being, y’know, Sicilian.  
> \- The mention of German immigrants is a reference to WWII, in which America fought alongside Britain, France and Russia to stop the Nazis. The mention of Russian immigrants is a reference to the Cold War, in which Soviet Russia and the USA turned on each other, and the world came dangerously close to nuclear war – several times.  
> \- I’m going to assume that Lucky’s not racist.  
> \- This boy’s got expensive-ass taste, omfg!  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Sì – yes  
> \- Merci – thank you  
> \- La gioielleria – the jeweller/jewellery shop


	11. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apology is made, things finally start looking brighter for Napoleon, and Al researches how to break the law.  
>  ~~For such long end notes, the summaries are always so short~~
> 
> NOTE: When I post the next chapter, I'm going to change the title of this fic because I don't feel that it still fits. I'm tossing up between 'Sometimes The Journey Isn't The Best Part' and 'Sweet Is The Fruit That Takes The Longest To Grow', so keep an eye out for that. I might also at some point go through and do a conclusive edit of the whole thing, but I'll let youse know beforehand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy all you lovely readers! Thank you for your patience; I know this chapter is horribly late but I have had zero (0) inspiration lately. Also~! I did some _actual_ research for this one ~~despite having a presentation due tomorrow that I have not started. . .~~
> 
> General disclaimer: you know how it is
> 
> I suddenly noticed yesterday that these chapters are getting longer, now that I'm planning them out, so I'm throwing the word count/limit out the window. If youse have any suggestions or anything you wanna see in the story, hit me up in the comments and I'll do my best. Cheers~

Al and Lucky trawled the city for a few hours, and by the time they got back to the car Lucky was bitching about his sore feet and empty belly. Al rolled his eyes at his friend and managed to extract his keys from his pocket. They’d gone over-budget, but Lucky had expensive taste and insisted that it would be worth the extra dollars. Al had raised an eyebrow skeptically, but his friend had winked and tugged on his collar suggestively.

 

“So, we’re buying these expensive-ass shirts just so that I can rip them off ya?” Al had asked exasperatedly, not really irritated.

 

“Pretty much.” Came the cheeky reply.

 

Al hustled him into the car – the bugger was properly awake now, and wanted to reacquaint himself with New York – and they left for home. As he drove, Lucky dug around in the various shopping bags, pulling things out to look at them before putting them back and moving on. It was pretty amusing, Al thought, watching him go through everything like he _hadn’t_ just seen it all.

 

The sky was clear again today, and the afternoon sun slanted in under the windshield shades. Lucky squinted against it, and Al gave his knee a friendly pat.

 

“Don’t make that face,” he said. “What’d I get ya sunglasses for, huh?” Lucky started, and dived back into the various bags and boxes. He eventually found the one with the glasses in it, and slipped them on gratefully.

 

As he went back to watching out the window, Al sighed softly. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed him until his friend had come back into his life. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ things to go back to the way they were before; he had a good life here with French Fries, irritating as he was sometimes. He wanted, secretly, to wake up with Nippy in his arms; to take him out to nice places; to provide for him so the little guy could continue to enjoy his low-stress job at the bookshop. Al wanted to see new places and experience new things with him by his side. However, he also wanted someone who could keep up with him, especially now that he was going to try to tap back into the Mafia. Lucky _knew_ that world, and would be infinitely more interested in it. Plus if they were together, they would never have to face each other as rivals. Not that they ever did, but still.

 

Al knew he would eventually have to choose one over the other, but it didn’t seem like Nippy returned his feelings. Lucky was familiar, but he was still extremely wary of showing affection in front of other people, and Al didn’t want to have to hide anymore. He was tired of pretending and slinking around like a fugitive.  He realised he’d been silent for a while when Lucky touched his shoulder and gave him a funny look.

 

“You ‘kay? Got real quiet suddenly.” He said. Al nodded, forcing himself to concentrate on the here-and-now.

 

“Yeah. Just zoned out.” He smiled and  patted Lucky’s leg again. His friend took his hand and held it for a moment. Al wasn’t sure how to feel about that, so he didn’t pull away until Lucky let go. They drove the rest of the way home in companionable quiet.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Napoleon couldn’t sit still, jittery with his new information. Was it possible that Ahkmenrah had hit the nail on the head, and that Capone _did_ feel the same way as him? He felt lightheaded, and once again found himself pacing restlessly. Guilt gnawed at his gut as he thought about how cold he’d been toward Luciano. Lord, he owed both of them an apology. He made yet _more_ tea and settled in to watch a film. He wasn’t working today and Capone and Luciano were unlikely to be back soon, so he had hours to fill.

 

The film was colourful and bright, and followed the story of a young Chinese-American woman who journeyed overseas to meet and deal with her boyfriend’s impossibly rich, impossibly difficult family. Napoleon thoroughly enjoyed it, and watched it twice. He wanted to go to this place – Singapore, he believed – and wondered if Capone was open to travelling. He hoped so.

 

Somehow, he managed to keep himself busy until the two gangsters returned home in the early evening. Both were laden down with shopping bags and boxes, which they ferried through to their shared room. Napoleon caught Capone’s eye as he ushered Luciano down the hall, and the American shrugged sheepishly.

 

“Spent too much.” He mouthed. Napoleon sighed. He didn’t know how much money Capone had set aside for this, but clearly it hadn’t been enough. He was curious as to what had been bought. Luciano needed some clothes of his own, a bank account and possibly a mobile phone. Judging from the amount of shopping, the man was now in possession of a full wardrobe and then some. No wonder they’d been gone so long.

 

Napoleon trotted off to the kitchen to make a start on an early supper, as his stomach was beginning to remind him of its emptiness. A few minutes later, Capone and Luciano wandered in, no doubt following the smell of the brewing coffee. New Yorkers were like bloodhounds when it came to coffee, Napoleon noted. Across the kitchen, Luciano’s stomach growled loudly and he grinned apologetically. Capone laughed and plucked an apple out of the fruit-bowl. He lobbed it at the other, who caught it in one hand before taking a bite out of it.

 

“No, no, no! Don’t eat now!” Napoleon chided, waving a fork at him. Luciano hesitated, the fruit halfway to his mouth again. Then he shrugged and took another bite.

 

“‘S alright. Healthy.” He said around the mouthful. Napoleon gave him a look, and planted his hands on his hips.

 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s healthy or not; don’t fill up before supper. It isn’t going to be long.” He replied. Luciano looked down at his apple.

 

“But I’ve already taken a bite outta it.” He mused. “It’s gonna go brown, and I ain’t throwing away a perfectly good apple.” Napoleon opened his mouth to argue, but Luciano made a good point. He hummed and gave the gangster a beady look, before turning back to the stove.

 

About an hour and a half later, the food had been cooked, dished and eaten, and the three men were settled comfortably in the living room. Napoleon fidgeted a little, knowing that now was the best time to apologise. He knew Capone would be in a more forgiving mood with a full belly, and assumed the same was true for Luciano. He cleared his throat nervously, and both looked at him.

 

“So, um,” he began. “I realise I haven’t been particularly friendly toward you, Monsieur Luciano– ”

 

“Please, call me Lucky.” The man interjected, waving a hand dismissively.

 

“‘Lucky’. Alright. Uh, anyway, I would like to apologise.” Napoleon continued shakily, very aware of Capone’s eyes on him. No doubt he was listening carefully to each word, ready to leap to his friend’s defence if need be. “I was not kind to you, either of you, because I was unhappy about having another housemate – especially someone that I had never met before. I have no excuse for acting like such a child, but I beg your forgiveness.” Napoleon finished, bowing his head and not looking either in the face. There was a brief moment of tense silence, in which Capone and Luciano shared a look. Finally, Luciano leaned forward and spoke.

 

“I understand, and I accept your apology.” He said, and Napoleon raised his head a little. He met Capone’s gaze and the gangster nodded, a faint smile playing around his lips. The Frenchman felt relief flood through him. _There,_ he thought privately. _That wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be._ Suddenly, Capone stood up, obviously uncomfortable with the tension.

 

“Wait here.” He announced and left the room. Luciano looked closely at Napoleon, who squirmed a tiny bit.

 

“I’m grateful for the apology,” he said softly. “But also curious. Besides me being a total stranger – which _is_ fair enough – , what made you dislike me? Was it something I did or said?” He asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Napoleon sighed.

 

“ _Non_ , you didn’t do anything wrong. I- I accidentally witnessed you and Capone kiss at the museum, and I. . . _oui_. It wasn’t you; it was me.”

 

Luciano’s expression instantly became guarded.

 

“You saw that?” He said flatly. “Is that why you’re angry?” It took a moment for Napoleon to understand the implication, but then he shook his head vehemently.

 

“No, it’s not that at all! It was just a shock; I always thought Capone preferred women.”

 

“Nah, he swings both ways.” Luciano replied, relaxing visibly. “Me too, but not as much.” Napoleon nodded, thinking of his own affections. He, too, was able to love women but greatly preferred men. Not that he had any kind of experience in that field, unfortunately. Luciano leaned in conspiratorially, glancing over his shoulder.

 

“I reckon Al likes guys better, to be honest. I mean, he _was_ always chattin’ up the boys at the bars more than the girls.” He grinned, winking. Napoleon’s eyes widened. Did he even know the man _at all?_ Just then, the man himself reappeared in the doorway, deck of cards in hand.

 

“Talkin’ shit about me again?” He asked, giving Luciano a playful shove between the shoulder blades.

 

“Of course.” He shot back, giving Napoleon a cheeky smile. Capone flopped down next to him and dragged the coffee table closer.

 

“I see you two made friends quickly.” He commented, shuffling the cards. “Poker?” Luciano nodded, and scooted over.

 

“Nippy?” Capone invited. Napoleon bit his lip.

 

“I don’t know how to play.” He said, shrugging a little. Luciano waved him over.

 

“We’ll teach ya. Just don’t play for any actual money unless you think you can beat Al. People have lost _thousands_ to ‘im, once he’s gotten into his stride.” He added in a stage whisper. His friend smacked his leg, and dealt them in. Somehow, he’d come into possession of a decent number of gambling chips.

 

“I don’t even want to know where you got these.” Napoleon murmured, shaking his head.

 

“Found ‘em.” Capone replied vaguely. He quickly explained the terms and principles of the game, and Napoleon tried to follow along. It was a bit complicated, though. There were lots of rules, and it seemed to rely heavily on deception and luck. When he mentioned as much, Capone chuckled.

 

“It’s not so much about luck as it is about skill. Even if ya get shitty cards all the time, you can still win.” He said kindly. Napoleon looked at him in confusion. “It’s easier to learn while you play.” Capone added. “Just make sure you don’t reveal your hand until the very end. If you fold, the cards go face down and then back into the deck. We never get to know what you had.” Napoleon nodded, figuring it was best to play and learn from his mistakes.

 

A few rounds later, Napoleon was starting to get the hang of it. He could see how people could get addicted to this. He still lost every time, but he wasn’t losing as fast anymore. Once or twice, he’d managed to deceive Capone and win a few chips, which Napoleon and Luciano celebrated with a high five. He also began to notice the gangsters’ playing styles. Luciano, it seemed, only played to the end of the round if he had a good hand. Capone did the opposite – he placed massive bets, bluffs, which no one could meet. It was infuriating, because even when Napoleon _knew_ he was bluffing, the bet was always too high to risk. His own style consisted of erratic bluffing and folding, neither of which were particularly well thought out.

 

Eventually, he looked up at the wall clock and saw that almost four hours had passed since supper. He yawned and stretched, before placing his cards down on the table.

 

“Folding?” Asked Capone, nodding at the stacks of chips in the middle. Napoleon nodded, rubbing at his eyes.

 

“I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.” He replied. “Thank you for teaching me this game, I had fun playing.” Capone smiled.

 

“‘S all good. Are ya gonna shower first or can I?” He said, looking a little hopeful. Napoleon shook his head and stood up.

 

“No, I’m going. Won’t be long.” He said, and left the room.  

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The next morning, Al slept in. He hadn’t meant to, but he was so tired from the day before and he’d had weird dreams that night. Something to do with wasps that turned into cats, and a vicious women’s cage match at one point. He shook his head, the details already slipping away. He reached blindly for Lucky, but his side of the bed was cold. Al yawned and cracked one eye open. He glanced over at the clock and understood; it was past ten-thirty, so no wonder Lucky was up and about.

 

He managed to will himself out of bed, and into the bathroom. After he brushed his teeth, he rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully. He hadn’t shaved for a day or two, but he sort of liked the look. Before the Smithsonian, he’d shaved mostly because Mae hadn’t liked the look or feel of facial hair, and also because he’d had a suave, polished image to uphold. Now, though, he could be as scruffy as he wanted and it didn’t matter.

 

He brushed his hair and ambled into the kitchen. Lucky and Nippy were standing at the island in the middle, chatting amiably.

 

“ _Bonjour_.” Nippy smiled, noticing him. Lucky turned, spreading his hands.

 

“He lives!” He laughed. Al made a face at him, and started brewing his coffee. He was reaching for the bacon to make breakfast when a thought occurred to him.

 

“Have youse eaten?” He asked. They shook their heads, and Al rolled his eyes. “Do you even eat at all when I’m not around?” He said wryly, directing the question at Nippy. The little guy looked indignant.

 

“I wouldn’t _ordinarily_ eat breakfast – I’d have an early lunch. But you cook, so I eat.” He replied.

 

“So that’s a no, then.”

 

Lucky grinned, and took the bacon from him.

 

“You’re so traditional, _nonna_.” He smirked, and started separating the pieces into a pan. Al flicked his shoulder, and poured his coffee before retreating from the kitchen in amused defeat.

 

Once sat comfortably on the sofa, he tugged his phone out of his pocket and opened Google. He was about to start typing when he stopped. Larry’s kid – Nick – had said something about the FBI watching what was searched, so to be careful. The last time he’d realised the FBI was spying was when that little shit Ness had wiretapped all of his calls and raided his breweries. That had been embarrassing, especially when Ness had turned up on his doorstep with several trucks loaded with empty beer-barrels. He hadn’t been able to look anyone in the eye for a while after that. Thank God for corruptible phone companies, though.

 

He thought for a second, then tapped his question into the search bar.

 

_What does the mafia do now?_

 

Innocent enough, right? He hoped so. He was trying to find out where the money was at, so he could set up his rackets again. He opened the first article – Wikipedia, of _course_ – and scanned it. It seemed that the main focus was still on gambling, prostitution, extortion and drug trafficking. Al hummed, and did some more reading on it. The Chicago Outfit still existed, so that was a plus. On the downside, if he was going to intimidate or seduce the current Boss into stepping aside, he was going to have to explain who he was. Hopefully the other guy wouldn’t have him shot for insanity.

 

The ‘Ndrangheta was still pretty influential, that came as no surprise, and Al was glad to see that the Mob was still friendly with it, as well as a handful of other powerful allies like the Sicilian Mafia. As he did more and more research into it, he realised that really not much had changed in the years since he was trapped on Alcatraz like a caged dog. When he was released, he was too sick to even think about going back to the high-stress lifestyle of a _capo_ , so his last memories of the Mob were when he was still living the high life before the IRS came down on him like the Angel of Death.

 

Shit, he’d _definitely_ learned his lesson – if all they could get him for was taxes, then this time around, he was just gonna pay the damn things and be done with it. And if he paid them according to his official income, the IRS would have no reason to prosecute him. Except maybe on his assets _in comparison_ to his official income, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he was just gonna focus on quietly getting back into it and slowly working his way up to the top again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Guess who watched Crazy Rich Asians again? Such a good film, 10/10  
> \- Lucky and Al’s shopping trip took up most of the day, because Lucky likes to look at everything before deciding. It drives Al up the wall.  
> \- So, Al is kind of old-fashioned when it comes to romance (surprise surprise), and he still very much believes in one partner completely providing for the other. That doesn't mean he wants Naps to be a _housewife_ per se, but he won't allow him to pay any bills or do any of the 'tedious' stuff - like taxes, car rego etc. If they were to ~~somehow~~ have kids, Al would expect him to ferry them to and from school, and do mom stuff, but he wouldn't expect Naps to raise them on his own. And even though it's nice to come home to a clean house, he also doesn't expect Naps to run around with the vacuum cleaner and mop every other day - a weekly houseclean is fine.  
> \- Al chatted up lots of people at bars – he’s a social person.  
> \- Al’s dream was based off the nightmares I’ve been having, but his weren’t scary. I think I need to stop drinking coffee before bed. . .  
> \- Nonnas (stereotypically) say ‘have you eaten?’ ; Al said ‘have you eaten?’ ; therefore, Al = a nonna ~~fight me.~~  
>  \- Eliot Ness famously raided Al’s Prohibition-era breweries with the press in tow, until Al realised that wiretapping was a thing. He paid out the local telephone companies to help him listen into Ness’ plans to raid his biggest brewery, and managed to relocate the whole damn thing – publicly humiliating Ness, and effectively neutralising the threat on that front. He did, unfortunately, lose thousands of dollars worth of illegal alcohol before he sorted his Ness problem out.  
> \- So, I had to look this one up, ‘extortion’ means ‘obtaining money by way of bribery, force or threat’.  
> \- The ‘Ndrangheta (an-drang-geta~) is an organisation kind of similar to the Mafia, but based in Calabria, Italy. It’s not as famous overseas as the Mob, but it was (possibly still is) one of the richest and most powerful organised crime syndicates in the world.  
> \- From what I understand, Al was caught for tax evasion (because they couldn’t get him on anything else) and set to a lower security prison. However, the US government figured he was still too powerful – with his contacts and money and all that – so he was transferred to Alcatraz with a longer sentence, until his syphilis came back in a more advanced, more serious form. Because he was so sick, the government let him go home to his family, and he eventually died of a heart attack in 1942. He was 43 years old.  
> \- For those of you who aren’t American or familiar with the US Government (like me), the IRS is the Internal Revenue Service. It’s basically like a Federal tax office, so it collects and counts taxes to make sure that everyone pays up.  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Bonjour – hello  
> \- Nonna – grandma  
> \- Capo - boss


	12. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon finds out some things about Al's background, and Lucky is a good man. Also, he knows exactly what Al is feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General disclaimer: I don't own the characters, the mistakes are mine, un-beta'd, lemme know if there's any glaring mistakes.
> 
> I honestly _cannot_ believe how much love this story is receiving; thank you guys so much for not only sticking with it, but for leaving such lovely comments!! Every time I read them, it makes me feel so much more confident and inspires me to write the next chapter. ♡ ♡ ♡ Be ready for some horribly cliché flirting in this chapter. It's also very dialogue heavy, and I would like to apologise for that.
> 
> I spent an hour and a half looking at diamond rings ~~that I'll never be able to afford~~ and listening to AC/DC, just so Al could have some actual jewellery and not half-imagined shiny things on his fingers and wrists. Hmmmm. . .

I wanted to give you guys an idea of Al's taste in jewellery, so you can find a picture of his watch [here](https://3.imimg.com/data3/VN/DC/MY-8970985/fancy-diamond-watch-500x500.jpg) and his rings [here](https://d20q60vkvwzi8p.cloudfront.net/files/img510016650793.jpeg) (this one's a pinky ring), [here](https://www.michaelhill.com.au/dw/image/v2/AANC_PRD/on/demandware.static/-/Sites-MHJ_Master/default/dw30be366c/images/15073693/C15256027-23_1.jpg?sw=224&sh=224&sm=fit), [here](https://www.michaelhill.com.au/dw/image/v2/AANC_PRD/on/demandware.static/-/Sites-MHJ_Master/default/dwb75183b6/images/11648826/C11648826-23_1.jpg?sw=224&sh=224&sm=fit), [here](https://harreira.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/53.jpg) and [here](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/b9/91/3e/b9913ebdcbb24c72604bab47b33f17ad--mens-gold-rings-men-rings.jpg). And [this](https://content.beaverbrooks.co.uk/medias/0004985-0-Large?context=bWFzdGVyfGltYWdlc3wxNDQwMzh8aW1hZ2UvanBlZ3xpbWFnZXMvODgzMTYzMzc4NDg2Mi5qcGd8LQ) is his wedding ring. It's a lot, omg. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was around lunchtime that Napoleon noticed how much quieter than usual Capone was. He still messed about and kept his head up, but it seemed a tiny bit forced. He wondered what was going on. After they ate, he took Capone aside in the kitchen. The gangster was quickly washing the dishes, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Napoleon admired the muscles in his forearms for a moment, before approaching him. He touched Capone’s elbow, hoping he wasn’t going to make him jump. Luckily, he just flashed him a smile.

 

“‘Sup, Nippy?” He said, stacking the dripping plates. Napoleon shrugged.

 

“Nothing much. I just noticed that, uh. . . well, you look a bit down. Are you alright?” He said hesitantly. Capone sighed, resting his wrists on the sink. Napoleon saw that he’d taken his fancy watch and rings off. He hung his head for a moment, as if praying, before answering.

 

“I’m just really missin’ my family, y’know? Today’s. . . today’s my ma’s birthday.” He murmured, eyebrows pinching together in the middle. Napoleon melted. He understood what it was like to miss one’s family, and Capone was obviously very close with his. He was about to offer to finish the dishes when Capone continued.

 

“As far as I know, the only direct family I got left are a couple a’ grandkids. My own son’s dead already.” He said, and Napoleon couldn’t miss the tremor in his voice. He laid a hand on Capone’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. _It must be agonisingly difficult,_ he thought, _to have some family left and being unable to reconnect with them._ It would be so much worse than not having any at all. The way he saw it, he was lucky; the remnants of his family would be so scattered and distantly related that it wasn’t particularly painful to think about them.

 

He rubbed small circles into Capone’s broad shoulders, thinking of his conversation with Ahkmenrah and trying not to get too touchy – he didn’t want to spook the man by suddenly being physically affectionate. When Capone leaned into the touch, it was so subtle that Napoleon almost missed it. He patted his shoulder, and began to dry the dishes to be put away.

 

A few minutes later, the kitchen was once again clean and tidy. Luciano was napping in his and Capone’s shared room, so they had the afternoon to themselves. Napoleon shooed the gangster into the living room, reassuring him that coffee wouldn’t be long in forthcoming.

 

Once he’d placed it on the table in front of Capone, Napoleon settled on the sofa next to him. He made sure to keep a socially acceptable distance between them, again for fear of scaring him off. He cradled his own cup, sipping carefully at the scorching hot tea. They sat in companionable silence for a bit, until Napoleon mustered the courage to break it.

 

“So, uh. . .” he began, unsure of how to phrase his question. Capone looked at him expectantly. “Um. Your family. . . you seem very close with them. . .” He continued. _Well done, monsieur obvious!_ He thought, mentally kicking himself. Capone nodded, dropping his gaze. Napoleon took a deep breath and decided to just ask; if the words came out as insensitive, then he would apologise and back off.

 

“Tell me about them. . . maybe it will help you feel better?”

 

Capone fixed him with a careful look, clearly weighing up the merits of talking about his family. After a brief moment, he heaved a sigh that seemed to come from his very core.

 

“I was always real close to ‘em.” He began, resting his empty mug on his knee. “We came over from Italy when I was small, and we didn’t really have much, y’know? It was me, Ma, Pa, and eight brothers and sisters.”

 

“Eight!” Napoleon exclaimed, surprised. Capone smiled, a little wistfully.

 

“Yeah – nine kids and two parents, all living in a tiny lil’ two-bedroom flat. It _was_ pretty cramped, not gonna lie. Anyway, that’s most of the reason why I got into the Mob in the first place – to provide for my family.”

 

“I see you still believe in that, paying most of the rent and everything.” Napoleon commented, amused. Capone suddenly looked guilty.

 

“You noticed that?” He said sheepishly, rubbing at his neck. The Frenchman smiled and waved a nonchalant hand, signalling him to go on.

 

“Uh, yeah. Illegal manufacture and distribution of alcohol. It was kind of fun, actually. The power; the excitement of rebelling against the government. And the money was good, too.” Capone added, grinning. “I didn’t tell my parents about it, though. They found out when I accidentally let slip that my breweries were doing good. I’ve never been yelled at like that, oh my _God_. I thought Pa was gonna bust a vein when he realised. After they calmed down, I promised that it would be fine and that I wouldn’t get into any of the other rackets.”  Napoleon snorted.

 

“Look how well _that_ panned out.” He said, chuckling. Capone shrugged.

 

“Not _two weeks_ after that, I was nearly arrested for breaking Prohibition. I managed to keep that from ‘em, though. Gotta admit; they weren’t too happy when I got Ralph and Frankie into it.” He continued, a shadow passing over his face. “I felt so guilty when- when Frankie died. It was my fault – I convinced him to join the Outfit, and when the cops killed him to get to me. . .” He trailed off, voice shaking. Napoleon made a sympathetic noise, and touched Capone’s calf with his foot. A subtle gesture, he hoped.

 

“Ma was never the same,” murmured Capone. “She got real quiet after that.”

 

“And your wife? What was she like?” Napoleon asked gently, guiding him away from that train of thought. The mobster smiled sadly and he cringed internally. It seemed that they had moved from one painful topic to another. Fantastic.

 

“Beautiful. Not just physically, but in everything. She was always willin’ to give, and didn’t ask for much. And she was so _classy_ , Nippy. She was the most sophisticated woman I ever met, but that didn’t stop her from saying exactly what she meant. Nicely, of course, but still. I think the only time she was ever really. . . like, vulnerable, y’know. . . was when she told me she was pregnant. We were still just dating, so I guess she figured I would want out and got scared.”

 

“But you didn’t, right?”

 

“No! Course not. I never once thought about leavin’. My family is – was – Catholic, so we got married quickly, before she started showing.” Capone gestured to his belly in a vague imitation of a pregnancy. Napoleon nodded in acknowledgment. He was finding out all sorts of interesting things about him; like the depth of his love, for instance.

 

“We managed to convince ‘em that we conceived on our wedding night. Got a little complicated toward the end, when the due date was comin’ up, but nobody ever asked so we never said anything.” The mobster said, shrugging a little. “I wasn’t always the greatest husband, and Lord knows I didn’t deserve Mae, but she stayed by me through everything.” He finished with a small sigh. Napoleon hummed, downing the last of his tea. As he did so, Capone patted the Frenchman’s leg and rose to his feet. He stretched luxuriously, and Napoleon was once again reminded of how tall he really was.

 

“Lemme take that for ya.” He said, motioning to Napoleon’s empty cup. As it changed hands, their fingertips brushed and Napoleon glanced up into his face. Their eyes met. Capone quickly blinked and looked away. Napoleon nearly swooned. As he watched Capone walk back into the kitchen, he contemplated how much better he was getting to know the man, now that he wasn’t trying to deny himself anymore.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

It felt really good to get all his grief off his chest, Al thought as he returned his and Nippy’s cups to the kitchen. French Toast was a good listener, and turned out to be right – he _did_ feel better after talking about his family. Al contemplated how much more. . . like, touchy-feely Nippy had become recently. He tried to dismiss it, because _no way_ French Fries was into him! Al didn’t honestly think he was worthy of the little guy, all things considered.

 

He spent the rest of the afternoon just killing time, scrolling through social media half-asleep. It was mind-numbing stuff mostly, but he’d struck up a surprisingly good friendship with Larry’s kid, Nick. He’d introduced Al to internet humour, and got him hooked. Every now and then, Nick would send him something with no context and Al wasn’t even ashamed to say that he understood ninety percent of it.

 

A few hours later, Lucky came padding into the living room. His hair was dishevelled and he had a pillow-mark down the side of his face. Al smiled at him, as he rubbed his eyes and yawned. _It must’ve been a good nap,_ he thought. Lucky had obviously been half-asleep as he changed his shirt, because it was inside out. Al found it endearing.

 

“ _Buongiorno_ , sleepyhead.” He grinned. Lucky stopped in his tracks.

 

“What time is it. . . ?” He whispered, looking a little horrified. Al couldn’t help but laugh. He glanced at his phone, and reassured him that he hadn’t slept through the night. Lucky gave a sigh of relief and made a beeline for the pantry. From where he was, Al watched as his friend fished a snack out of the cupboard while Nippy stood at the doorway and tapped his foot. Lucky jumped when he saw him.

 

“Why do you always eat just before dinner?” French Fry demanded. Al raised an eyebrow in amusement.

 

“I don’t.” Lucky insisted, stashing his snack in his pocket.

 

“ _Oui,_ you do!” Nippy shot back. “Is it my cooking?”

 

“No! I always eat what you cook!” Lucky retorted, crossing his arms. _Good point,_ Al thought. French Toast narrowed his eyes.

 

“But you do not enjoy it?” He accused, and Al had to cover his grin. That was a dirty trick, and this was hilarious.

 

“I do, but- ”

 

“Then why are you always hungry?” Nippy smirked, clearly thinking he’d cornered Lucky. He was right. Lucky huffed, giving in, and Al smiled despite himself. French Fry’s arguing skills were getting better; he wasn’t as easily flustered anymore, and could look both bosses in the eye for more than three seconds at a time.

 

A while later, after Nippy had taken off to shower, Lucky took Al aside. He looked like he was struggling for words. He sighed, dropping his gaze to the ground, and Al waited patiently.

 

“I think we, maybe, need to give each other some distance, y’know. . .” He murmured, finally lifting his head. Al blinked.

 

“Hey?” He said, intelligently. Lucky rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

 

“Al. It’s not the same as it was before.” He replied gently. “We ain’t really in _love_ anymore; we’re more like. . . friends with benefits.” Al nodded, still processing. Lucky seemed to take his silence as a bad thing, because he laid his hand on Al’s arm.

 

“I still wanna be friends, it just don’t seem fair that you’re tied to me when you don’t really love me.” He said quietly, glancing over Al’s shoulder. As Al opened his mouth, Lucky continued. “I can see that you got feelings for somebody else – and I ain’t holdin’ it against ya! – so. . . yeah. I just don’t want it to be awkward for anyone.”

 

It took Al a second to register everything he’d said. Then-

 

“How did you- oh my god! Am I that obvious?” He said, a pit opening up in his stomach. He couldn’t believe it; how fucking transparent was he?! If Lucky had noticed, there was no way in Hell that Nippy _hadn’t_. The little guy was sharp as a tack, and noticed everything. Al felt the heat rising in his neck, and Lucky smiled kindly.

 

“See? I don’t wanna get in the way of this.” He said, but Al wasn’t sure how he was going to face Nippy again. “And don’t panic – you’re not as obvious as ya think. I mean, Napoleon hasn’t said anything to me about it, so I don’t think he knows. Or if he does, he’s got more tact than I gave ‘im credit for.” Lucky reassured him, pulling Al into a one-armed hug. As they broke apart, he grinned mischievously.

 

“When are ya gonna tell him?” He asked, and Al rolled his eyes.

 

“Probably never.” He replied, then saw a potential danger. “Don’t you dare say anything!” Lucky pouted, then smiled again.

 

“I won’t, Romeo.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“My apologies, dear Juliet.”

 

“Jesus, you’re impossible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Just about every meal is cooked – I mean, an Italian, a Sicilian and a Frenchman? What did we expect?  
> \- Al is a jewellery boy, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise. He’s still got his watch and diamond rings from before, because he was wearing them when the exhibit picture was taken.  
> \- I think the Capone family had a two-bedroom place, but I’m not quite sure. It might have also been three-bed. Either way, somebody was always sleeping on the sofa.  
> \- I’m assuming Al’s parents wouldn’t have been too happy about his illegal activities at first, but would have accepted to it when he managed to look after them all.  
> \- Al’s younger brother and right-hand-man _was_ actually shot by a group of plain-clothes cops, who were looking to take down Al. It’s unclear whether Frankie drew his gun first or what exactly happened, but he ended up dead in the street with a chest full of bullets. This is not the same Frank that Al has around in this story – that one is his friend and former-employer, Frank Yale.  
> \- Everything about Mae Capone’s character here is made up – I couldn’t really find anything on her as a wife and mother, so I just think of her as being real classy and cultured. ~~Not like me, obviously.~~  
>  \- Let’s assume that Al found out Mae was preggo about a month before their wedding. Given that a pregnancy lasts nine months, their kid would have been born a month “too early” – hence the tension around it. As far as I know, and correct me if I’m wrong, Catholics don’t believe in premarital sex, so for Mae to have fallen pregnant before she and Al got married was kind of a big thing.  
> \- Lucky changed his shirt before taking a nap because collared shirts are not nice to sleep in.  
> \- Stg, 90% of this story takes place around mealtime. . .  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- _Buongiorno_ – good morning


	13. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon finally tells someone how he feels, Lucky is a good go-between (if you count blackmail as helpful), and we find out that Al has balls of steel. And probably zero concept of self-preservation.
> 
>  
> 
> Here's to 30 000+ words! ☆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH IT FINALLY HAPPENED!! Two chapters in three days, because I love you guys _so much_ and I had to get this out before I lost inspiration~ 
> 
> General disclaimer, un-beta'd, you know how the rest goes. 
> 
> Big thank you to everyone reading this - you stuck with it through all the frustration, and now we're finally getting some rewards! This is a slightly shorter chapter than usual, but I didn't want to stretch it too much or it wouldn't flow and end nicely.

When Napoleon came out of the shower, Capone and Luciano were in the process of rearranging the living room. He sighed, wondering what they were up to now. As he watched, Capone rolled up his sleeves and shook his loose hair out of his eyes. He and Luciano managed to lift the sofa off of its feet and walked it to another spot. As they put it down, almost dropping it, Capone let out a huff of air. He rolled his shoulders, and Napoleon realised that he could see the muscles in the gangster’s back through his shirt. He felt his cheeks go pink, but didn’t move. Neither of them had spotted him yet.

 

“How the fuck did you get this thing _up_ here?!” Luciano groaned, rubbing at his neck. Capone laughed freely, and shrugged.

 

“We brought it up in pieces. You can dismantle just about all the furniture we have.” He replied, his back still turned to Napoleon. Luciano made a noise of acknowledgement, and the Frenchman suddenly noticed something.

 

“It’s off-centre.” He said, forgetting that the mobsters hadn’t seen him. Capone swore, and Luciano looked up like a startled rabbit. Napoleon snickered, and waved his hand at the sofa. “It’s off-centre.” He repeated, and Capone gave it a look.

 

“No, it ain’t.” He said, apparently confused. Luciano announced that he was going to look for any spare bedclothes that they may have, and left. Napoleon gestured to the sofa again.

 

“It’s not in the middle.” He reiterated, and Capone crossed his arms. He covered the distance between them in two strides.

 

“It _is_.” He argued. Napoleon rolled his eyes, and planted himself directly in front of the picture hanging on the wall. He shut first one eye, then the other. The sofa was slightly too far to the left; _just_ enough for it to bother him. He beckoned to Capone.

 

“Stand here, and look. It’s not in the right place.” He said, and moved out of the way. Capone squinted at it.

 

“You’re talkin’ shit. I don’t see the problem!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Napoleon took a deep breath, frustrated. He wasn’t strong enough to move it himself, but Capone wasn’t giving any ground.

 

“Just trust me. It will be a source of constant irritation for me if it stays there.” He said, trying not to sound pleading. Capone fixed him with a suspicious look, then gave in.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Where d’you want it?” He said, stepping forward. Napoleon smiled, pleased. He scrutinised the sofa’s position again, then motioned for Capone to shift it a few inches to the right. The gangster blew his hair out of his face again, kneeled and braced his shoulder against the furniture. He shoved it sideways, then stood and straightened it. Napoleon shook his head.

 

“Too far. Take it left a tiny bit.”

 

Capone groaned, but complied. Again, he moved it past the middle. Napoleon shifted his stance a little, but to no avail. It was still off-centre. He gave his flatmate an apologetic grin, and asked him to move it once again.

 

“Seriously?” Capone complained, still crouched on the floor. “This thing’s freakin’ heavy, man!” Napoleon shrugged.

 

“I’m sorry, but it needs to be dead-centre.” He answered, belatedly realising that he was still carrying his towel. Capone glared at him.

 

“Fine. Last time, though. If it still ain’t right after this, then ya just gonna have to deal with it.” He promised, and Napoleon nodded. That was fair. Then Capone narrowed his eyes playfully.

 

“Ah, you just like seein’ me here on the floor, huh? On my knees?” He quipped, shifting the sofa by centimetres. Napoleon almost choked, and felt his face heat up.

 

He was still reeling when Capone stood up and brushed himself off. He pulled himself together, and focused on the sofa. It was in the perfect spot now, thank God. He heard himself say thanks, then went to leave. He was halfway out the door when Capone called out to him.

 

“Hey.” He said, and Napoleon turned to face him. “Did you just come here to criticise or what?” He asked, and the Frenchman noticed that he seemed a tiny bit unsure. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he simply shrugged again.

 

He passed Luciano on his way back to his bedroom, and the mobster gave him a funny look.

 

“You okay?” He asked, and Napoleon nodded.

 

“Yes. I’m alright.” He answered, too quickly. Luciano gave him a once-over, and Napoleon wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not when a light switched on behind his eyes. Suddenly, before he could chicken out, he took a deep breath.  

 

“Can I talk to you about something?” He asked, somewhat frantically. Luciano raised his eyebrows but agreed. Napoleon opened his mouth and hit a snag. _How to phrase this,_ he thought. _Without being desperate._

 

“You and Capone are close, _oui_?” He said, trying to organise his racing thoughts. Luciano nodded, and shifted the blankets in his arms.

 

“You wanna ask him something personal? Cuz there’s no need to be scared of him; he’s got a good sense of humour despite the, y’know, temper.” He replied, chuckling. Napoleon shook his head.

 

“I. . . uh. . . it’s a bit. . . um. . .” He stammered, and Luciano waited patiently. Napoleon’s face was on fire, and he was absolutely certain that he was putting a tomato to shame. Then something seemed to click into place for the gangster, and he smiled slowly.

 

“You into him?” He said softly, leaning in. Napoleon nodded mutely. Luciano’s face split into a grin. “That’s interesting,” he said with amusement. “ _Very_ interesting.” Napoleon furrowed his brows, unsure if he was being mocked or not. Luciano gave him a warm smile, nudged his shoulder and winked.

 

“I won’t tell him if you do.” He smirked, and disappeared off down the hallway. Napoleon just stood there – he wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. He’d confessed to Capone’s best friend, who had accepted it unblinkingly and then basically _blackmailed_ him into telling Capone himself. All in the space of approximately twenty seconds. Eventually, he gave himself a mental shake. It felt like a heavy weight was lifting off of his shoulders – it wasn’t entirely gone yet, but it was definitely lighter now.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Al was ninety-eight-percent sure that he had died and gone to Hell. As if he’d cracked a fucking _innuendo_ in front of Nippy! And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d had the guts to reinforce it by pointing out that he was on his knees. _Gesù Cristo e Madre Maria,_ he was never gonna be able to forget this. As he lay awake that night, contemplating how long it would take for him to actually die from embarrassment, he thought over Nippy’s reaction to said innuendo. The little guy had made a funny noise and gone bright red, but Al assumed that was because he was such an innocent person and unused to that kinda crude humour.

 

Al hadn’t really done any research on him, though he did know Nippy had been king at one point and was supposed to have been a legendary General. He also knew that he’d taken over after the Revolution, which was a feat in itself, but beyond that, though, he didn’t actually know much else about Nippy’s past. He wondered if he’d ever had kids.

 

Al had no shame in saying that he’d always been a family guy – he was _Italian,_ for God’s sake – but he couldn’t quite admit to himself that he wanted one with French Toast. That was a dangerous road to go down; he couldn’t afford to think like that, especially because Nippy probably didn’t return his feelings.

 

He rolled over, trying to go to sleep but with no luck. He couldn’t stop thinking about French Fries, and it was driving him nuts. He was _so_ in love, he realised with a pang. This was different to the shy, nervous feeling he’d had when he and Mae had started dating; and it was also different to the illicit lust that his and Lucky’s relationship had begun with. This was so much stronger – Al knew exactly what he wanted, but he had no idea how to go about getting it. Or if he’d even be able to get it at all.

 

He agonised for a couple more minutes, before accusing himself of being a coward and getting out of bed. _Now or never,_ he thought, _before you can change your goddamn mind._

 

He made sure he had pants on, and strode over to Nippy’s door. He took a deep breath and knocked softly. The little guy opened it a few moments later, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

 

“It’s midnight, Capone.” He yawned, and Al ducked his head apologetically.

 

“Sorry. I gotta talk to you about somethin’, though.” He said, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. French Fry opened the door a little more, and let him in. The first thing Al noticed when the light came on was how tidy everything was. Nippy’s books were organised by size, his clothes from that day were neatly folded and ready to be washed, and the row of flowerpots on his windowsill were evenly spaced. The second thing he noticed was the smell; there was a soft, warm smell that was tainted with only traces of Nippy’s deodorant. The next thing Al noticed was how expectantly the little guy was looking at him. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, suddenly hyper-aware of everything around him. He couldn’t believe he was going through with this.

 

“I, uh. . . I know this is a weird time and all, but. . . uh. . . ” He started, cursing himself for being such a brazen idiot. It wasn’t like him to go in guns blazing, without a fully formed plan and yet – here he was. French Toast tilted his head to the side, still waiting.

 

“We’ve been dancin’ around each other, y’know?” Al said quickly, worried that if he took too long getting the words out then his nerve would fail him. Nippy nodded, looking more awake now. “I’m done tryna, uh. . . well, this is kinda awkward and everything but I can’t really hide this anymore. . . but, um. . . ugh, _mio Dio_!”

 

He took a deep breath, and looked French Toast in the eye. If this went wrong, then so be it. _What’s the worst that could happen?_ He thought.

 

“I like you. As in, I would like to take you on a date sometime. If you want to?”

 

Nippy’s eyes widened, and Al couldn’t help feeling that he’d just made a terrible mistake. Then the Frenchman went redder than a traffic light, and looked like he was about to pass out. Al tensed, ready to take the impending slap across the face. He would deserve it. However – much to his surprise – Nippy nodded. He was still blushing like crazy, but he accepted and managed a small smile. Al had never been so relieved in his life. He grinned, his pulse thrumming in his ears, and Nippy stepped forward tentatively. He cautiously touched Al’s arm, and the gangster understood what he wanted. He pulled French Fries in for a hug, not believing his luck. He’d gambled their friendship and won back even more.

 

 _Lucky’s gonna be so proud,_ he thought distantly, as they swayed together. Nippy buried his face in Al’s shoulder, giggling like a little kid, and Al didn’t think he’d ever felt happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Al can’t often be bothered with hair products, except when he’s actually going out somewhere ~~like when he took Naps for lunch.~~  
>  \- They have IKEA furniture, purely because it was so much easier to get up the stairs.  
> \- Naps has low-level OCD here – not diagnosed or anything, but he gets irritated when things that _should_ be in line are slightly out.  
> \- I just want to point out; their living room is carpeted, so it’s actually pretty difficult for one person to move the sofa around.  
> \- “innocent” . . . sure. . . ( ͡° ͜ ʖ ͡° )  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- _Gesù Cristo e Madre Maria_ – Jesus Christ and Mother Mary  
> \- _Mio Dio_ – my God


	14. NOTICE

Hey guys! 

I understand that a fair few people have been waiting on this story, but it is - unfortunately - officially on indefinite hiatus. If you wanna yell at me, I absolutely deserve it and I'm sorry for the disappointment. 

My reasons: 

\- My inspiration for this fic is waaaaay down, and isn't likely to be back soon;

\- I'm about to sit an ungodly number of exams (10) and studying ~~and crying~~ are chewing up most of my time;

\- Due to said exams, my stress levels are off the charts and it is difficult to write  ~~quality shit~~ ~~~~when you're _this_ wired

\- I fell into a new fandom (Guns N' Roses), and I'm super into Mag7 again; 

\- This fic is feeling really forced and cringe now, so I'm planning on rewriting the whole thing from scratch, which is going to take a long while.

Again, I'm _really_   sorry to disappoint youse. BUT I haven't abandoned this - I have an ending in mind, although getting there is proving to take considerably longer than I anticipated and honestly- it's kind of daunting. I have some other stories happening, so I'll still be active-ish, but there's nothing new for NaTM. I'm sorry. 

 

Cheers, all.


End file.
